In Another Life III
by Christine M. Greenleaf
Summary: MinaHarkerBlack suggested I write another story involving the gangster Jack Napier and the sweet and innocent Harleen Quinzel, so I did. :-) Thanks for the suggestion, and enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**In Another Life III**

"George, why don't you just pull over and ask for directions?"

"I know where I'm going, Gladys. We just gotta hope this pile of junk gets us there in one piece. Thing feels like it's gonna fall apart any second now."

"You could have borrowed the company car, surely?"

"Nah, that bucket of bolts broke down ages ago. Anyway, boss says he'll pay for the gas."

"Well, that's something, at least."

"It's nothing if it can't get us there without breaking down."

"Are we there yet, Daddy?"

"Soon, Harley, quit asking that, would ya?"

Harleen Quinzel sighed, leaning back in the backseat and staring out the window again, bored. She cuddled her teddy bear tightly against her chest and popped a bubble of gum.

"Harley, please stop that!" shouted George Quinzel, her father, as he whirled around. "Just sit still and be quiet, like a good girl!"

"But I'm bored, Daddy!" whined Harley.

"Talk to Mr. Bear, huh, Harley?" asked Gladys Quinzel, Harley's mother, giving her a patient smile. "Tell him how excited you are about getting to see Gotham City."

"I already told him," replied Harley, studying her teddy bear carefully. "He's excited to be there too. But he wants to know how much longer it's gonna take."

"Well, we're in Gotham now," said Harley's mother, nodding out the window. "But the hotel we're staying in is around the other side of town, near the place your Daddy's got his business meeting."

"West side," said Harley's father, nodding. "Business district. Not this dump."

"Don't look that much different from Brooklyn," said Harley, staring out the window.

"_Doesn't _look that much different from Brooklyn," corrected her father. "You need to talk like a big girl now, huh, Harley? You're almost four, so you need to speak like a grown up. You don't wanna grow up with bad speech patterns so everyone will think you're stupid, do ya?"

"No, Daddy," agreed Harley, playing with the arms of her teddy bear.

"Why don't you pull over at that gas station, George, so we can fill up the tank?" asked Harley's mother, pointing. "And maybe they'll have a mechanic there who can have a look at the car…"

"I _sell _cars, Gladys!" snapped Harley's father. "I'll tell you what's wrong with the car – it's old, and it's got a lotta miles on it! There ain't no quick fix a mechanic can give it! They ain't miracle workers!"

"Let's just fill up the tank, then," said Harley's mother. "Please, George."

He sighed but obeyed, pulling into the gas station. "Harley, you and Mr. Bear wanna stretch your legs?" asked Mrs. Quinzel, turning to smile at her daughter.

"We sure do!" exclaimed Harley, opening the door and jumping out.

"Now Harley, don't go wandering off," snapped her father, grabbing her arm. "This is a dangerous neighborhood."

"Sure thing, Daddy," said Harley, nodding.

The proprietor of the gas station, a tall, thin, middle-aged, rat-faced man with pasty skin and dull eyes, approached them. "Fill 'er up, sir?" he asked.

"Yeah, thanks," said Mr. Quinzel, nodding. "You the owner?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man, reaching for the gas pump.

"You got anyone here who could take a look under the hood?" asked Mr. Quinzel. "Car's just been making some funny noises."

"Funny how?" asked the owner, putting down the pump and lifting the hood. His dull eyes had become interested, and while the two men examined the car, Harley skipped over to look at the ice creams in the gas station shop window. She suddenly heard a noise behind the building, and peered around the corner.

There was a small alley by the side of the building, full of broken cars and discarded parts. A young, teenage boy was seated on the hood of one of the broken cars, puffing on a cigarette. He was thin and pale, but with bright, strange, green eyes, eyes that were burning with a weird fire, thinking distant thoughts.

He looked up and saw Harley, and scowled. Then he put a finger to his lips as he held up the cigarette. "Let me know if you see my old man coming," he muttered. "He'd belt me if he saw me with a cigarette. I ain't supposed to be smoking."

"You _aren't_ supposed to be smoking," corrected Harley, casually, as she swung Mr. Bear from one arm. "You're bigger than me – you should speak better than me."

The boy's scowl deepened. "Is that a fact, kid?" he muttered, inhaling from the cigarette.

"Yeah, it is," retorted Harley, firmly. "And you're a kid too. Just a bigger one than me."

"I'm sixteen," he snapped. "What are you, two?"

"I'm almost four!" snapped Harley.

The boy snorted. "Big girl," he muttered, sarcastically.

"Yeah, I am," retorted Harley, putting her hands on her hips. "I got a bigger brain than you, anyway. I know smoking is bad for you. You must be pretty stupid if you're sixteen and you ain't learned that yet."

He snorted again. "Why doncha come back when you've grown up, kid?" he muttered, inhaling from his cigarette again. "Maybe when you've lost the teddy bear."

"I ain't ever gonna lose him!" shrieked Harley, holding it tightly against her. "He's my best friend!"

"Christ, kid, doncha have any real friends to play with?" asked the boy, exhaling the cigarette.

"I don't need real friends," retorted Harley. "Mr. Bear is better than anybody real, because he can be whatever I want him to be."

"Mr. Bear?" snorted the boy, derisively. "Really? That's the best you can come up with? Ain't you got no imagination?"

"Yeah, I got a great imagination!" snapped Harley. "That's why I prefer Mr. Bear to real people! Real people are boring, because they don't change. Pretend people can be anything you imagine them to be."

The boy smiled. "What's your name, kid?" he asked, puffing on the cigarette.

"Harleen Frances Quinzel," replied Harley.

"Quite the mouthful there," he retorted.

"Yeah, call me Harley," she said. "Everyone does. What's your name?"

He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Jack," he retorted.

"That's it? Just Jack?" asked Harley.

"Just Jack," he repeated, nodding. "Ain't gonna keep my old man's name, but I ain't decided on a new name for myself yet."

"Why ain't you gonna keep the name you were born with?" asked Harley.

"Because my old man's a scumbag," retorted Jack.

"That ain't a very nice thing to say about your Daddy," said Harley. "I love my Mommy and Daddy very much."

"Well, ain't you lucky, kiddo?" snapped Jack. "Lucky you got parents you can respect. That don't change the fact that my old man's a scumbag."

"Why do you think that?" asked Harley.

"Christ, kid, what are you, a goddamn shrink?" he snapped.

Harley clapped her hand over her ears. "Don't swear!" she cried. "That's bad!"

"Yeah, I'm a bad man, kid," he snapped.

"You ain't a man," retorted Harley. "You're a kid, just like me."

Jack was about to respond angrily, when a furious voice shouted, "Jack!"

The owner of the gas station suddenly rounded the corner, and the fury on his face only increased when he saw the cigarette in the boy's hand. "Jack, how many goddamn times have I gotta beat you before you stop stealing my goddamn smokes?!" he shouted.

"Don't shout at him!" piped up Harley. The owner looked down at her. "I…saw them in the window and wanted to know how they worked. He was showing me," she invented.

The owner took a deep breath, getting his temper under control. "Oh…well…don't worry about it, then, sweetie," he said, patting Harley on the head. "Jack, get off your lazy ass and wash the car windows while I find some spark plugs for the customers," he snapped, glaring at the boy.

Jack put out the cigarette reluctantly and slid to the ground, trudging over to the car. "Hurry up about it!" shouted the owner, striking Jack across the back of the head. "And smile for the customers, for God's sake!"

Jack didn't smile – his scowl deepened but he said nothing, grabbing a spray bottle and a rag. "Why is your Daddy so mean to you?" asked Harley, following him back to the car.

"Just shut up, kid!" snapped Jack.

Harley's eyes filled with tears at being spoken to in that tone, and she suddenly began crying.

"Hey, hey, kid, I'm sorry," muttered Jack, the fury in his eyes melting suddenly as he sank to his knees to look her in the face. "I ain't…I ain't angry at you. You don't need to cry."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dirty handkerchief, which he used to wipe the tears from her face. "In fact, I owe you one," he muttered. "Taking the wrap for that cigarette thing – you got guts, kid, I'll say that for you. Now, c'mon, stop crying. You're a big girl – you said so yourself. Big girls don't cry."

"They do if people are mean to them," muttered Harley, wiping her eyes.

"I am sorry about that, kid, really," he murmured. "Now stop crying, huh? Please?"

Harley nodded. "Apologize to Mr. Bear for shouting too," she said, holding the teddy bear out to him.

"I'm…sorry…Mr. Bear," said Jack, slowly.

Harley held the bear up to her ear and nodded. "He says it's ok. We're still friends."

"Well…that's a relief," said Jack, smiling as Harley took his hand and led him over to the car.

"Mommy, Daddy, this is my friend Jack," said Harley.

"You the owner's kid?" asked Mr. Quinzel, glancing up from the map.

"Yeah," muttered Jack.

"Better start cleaning the windows then," retorted Mr. Quinzel, looking back down.

Jack's jaw tightened, but he obeyed. "Harley, leave the boy to his work," said Mrs. Quinzel. "C'mere. You got dirt all over your face."

Jack's eyes burned in fury as he saw Mrs. Quinzel carefully clean Harley's face off from where his oil-covered handkerchief had just stained it. He unleashed his anger on the windows, scrubbing far harder than was strictly necessary. The owner returned with the spark plugs and began tinkering under the hood.

"There you go, Mr. Quinzel," he said, slamming the hood down at last. "That should get you as far as Gotham West anyway, and hopefully all the way back to Brooklyn."

"Yeah, I think I'll have to invest in a new car when we get home," agreed Mr. Quinzel. "Thanks for your help though, Mr. Napier. How much do I owe you?"

While they haggled the price, Mrs. Quinzel buckled Harley back into the backseat. Harley watched Jack's face as he leaned against the window studying the conversation, grim and unsmiling, eyes full of rage and pain and hatred. She tapped on the window and he looked over at her. She stuck her tongue out at him, making a face, and was pleased to see him grin. A grin that fell suddenly when Mr. Quinzel knocked past him. "Oh, sorry, kid," he said. "Uh…here's a tip for you," he said, handing him a dollar bill.

"Thank you…sir," muttered Jack, glaring at the bill furiously.

"Your old man sure does know a lot about cars," commented Mr. Quinzel as he opened the door to the driver's seat.

"Yes, sir," muttered Jack. "He does…know a lot about cars."

"If you're ever looking for a job in Brooklyn, you get in touch," said Mr. Quinzel. "We could use knowledgeable guys like you."

"We sure will, Mr. Quinzel," said Mr. Napier, approaching Jack and laying a hand on his shoulder. "You have a safe journey now. And I hope your business meeting goes well."

"Thank you. It was nice to have met you, Mr. Napier, and your boy."

"Bye bye, Jack!" called Harley, rolling down the window and sticking her head out.

"Bye, kid," he said, smiling at her. "Bye, Mr. Bear," he said, nodding at the teddy. "And remember, I owe you one," he murmured.

"Don't worry, I won't forget," she said, beaming.

Jack waved after her as they drove off. The moment they were gone, Mr. Napier's smile dropped. "Who the hell do they think they are?" he muttered, reaching for a cigarette. "Working class trash, same as us, and yet they think they're so much better. So high and mighty. Did you see the way they looked at us?"

"I don't think they meant it like that …" began Jack.

"Anybody ask what you think?" snapped Mr. Napier, rounding on him.

"No," muttered Jack.

"No what?" demanded Mr. Napier.

"No, sir," muttered Jack.

"That's better," snapped Mr. Napier, puffing on his cigarette. "And their spoiled little brat cost me a smoke. Should've charged them for that."

"She was a sweet kid," said Jack, softly.

"You contradicting me again, boy?" demanded Mr. Napier. "You giving me lip?"

"No, sir…" began Jack.

"I think you are," he interrupted. "I think you better change your tone, Jack, before I have to beat some respect into you. I'm your father. You respect me."

"Yes, sir," muttered Jack.

Mr. Napier inhaled from his cigarette. "You're too much like your mother, Jack, that's your problem," he muttered. "Disobedient, stubborn, antagonistic. No wonder she abandoned you. She probably ran away because she couldn't stand to see herself in you."

"It's not my fault she ran away," whispered Jack.

"What did you say?" murmured Mr. Napier.

"It's not my fault she ran away," repeated Jack, louder. "It's yours. She ran away because she was sick of you getting drunk and violent. I know I am."

Without warning, Mr. Napier struck him a powerful blow across the face. "Don't you…DARE…defend the filthy slut!" he shouted. "Don't you dare blame me for her leaving you! She ran away because she didn't love you, and she didn't wanna have a kid hanging around her, hampering her chances of hooking up with another guy! She didn't want you, she never wanted you, and neither did I!"

He punched Jack again. "But I'm stuck with you now," he hissed. "That little tramp has left me to deal with her own goddamn mess! You should thank me for not sending you out on the streets with your whore of a mother! But you're spoiled and selfish and ungrateful, just like she was!"

"And you're a horrible, disgusting, violent bully!" shouted Jack, wiping his bleeding nose and lip.

"Don't you raise your voice to me, boy!" yelled Mr. Napier, hitting him again. The blow knocked Jack back into the alley, slamming him against the junk pile of ruined cars and parts. Jack tried to catch his breath, winded. His shaking hand reached for a thin, blunt, metal pipe as his father approached him.

"You respect me, boy!" hissed Mr. Napier, raising his fist again. "I'm your goddamn father!"

"And I'll see you in hell!" shouted Jack, slamming the pipe upward and making it collide with his father's face with a satisfying crack. Jack laughed as the blood flew everywhere, and he slammed the pipe harder into his father's face. He kept laughing as he continued to beat his father, who was screaming under the merciless blows. At last, Mr. Napier stopped screaming, but still Jack didn't stop, beating the body until it was an unrecognizable mass of blood and bone. Then he dropped the pipe, panting from the exertion, covered in blood, and beaming.

He heard the distant sounds of police sirens and raced into the shop, punching the cash register so the drawer popped open. Jack grabbed all the cash inside, shoving it into a bag, and then helped himself to several packets of cigarettes, and bits of food and drink, mostly alcohol. He slung the bag over his shoulder and then raced away from the gas station, disappearing into the shadows of Gotham City.

**Twenty Years Later...**


	2. Chapter 2

"Harley, it's so good to see you again," said Professor Jonathan Crane, sincerely, as the door to his office opened and Harleen Quinzel entered. "Please have a seat."

"Thanks, Professor," said Harley, obeying him.

"Would you like a cup of tea? I've just boiled the kettle," said Crane, holding up a mug.

"No…thanks, Professor," said Harley, slowly, as she played nervously with her hands. "Uh…maybe you could just tell me what this is about. I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"Oh, good Lord, no, nothing like that," replied Crane, laughing. "Quite the opposite in fact."

He smiled at her as he leafed through some of her papers on his desk. "Harley, I don't think it's any secret that you are by far the most capable of my students," he said. "You have a real talent for psychiatry."

"Well, I'm…really interested in helping people who are…a little different," said Harley, smiling back. "I guess it's because I've always been considered a little different."

"Well, your passion certainly shines through in your work," said Crane. "A few days ago, I was approached by a certain Dr. Joan Leland, whom I know from psychiatric conferences over the years. She's head doctor at Arkham Asylum, and she's currently involved in a very high profile criminal case, which you might have seen mentioned on the news. The one the District Attorney is prosecuting."

"Against that gang member?" asked Harley. "The one from the Valestra gang?"

"You're familiar with it, good," said Crane, nodding. "Yes, the Valestra gang raided a place called Ace Chemicals a few months ago, but were surprised by the police. Most of the gang members got away, but the police managed to detain a certain Jack Napier, who's now in police custody awaiting his trial. As you've heard, the District Attorney is making a special point of prosecuting him, probably because he wants to carry out his campaign pledge of cracking down on organized crime in Gotham. And high time too, I must say."

"I voted for Mr. Dent," said Harley, nodding in agreement.

"I think every sane person did," said Crane. "Anyway, the defense are trying to establish that Mr. Napier is not in his right mind, so they've called in Dr. Leland to sit in on the interviews with the prisoner and establish a psychiatric profile for him. It's a pretty big responsibility, and Dr. Leland confided in me that she'd appreciate an assistant, a promising student of mine, perhaps, who would be interested in helping her analyze Mr. Napier. I gave her your name, and she'd like you to get in touch, if you're interested."

Harley stared at him. "Oh…wow…Professor, I don't know what to say!" she stammered. "This is…such an incredible opportunity…"

"Yes, I thought you'd be excited," said Crane, smiling. "But don't thank me, Harley – you've earned this. You're such a dedicated worker, and an enthusiastic student. I'm just happy I could help."

"This is…wow…this is…big, Professor!" gasped Harley, beaming. "I mean, I'll get to meet Harvey Dent…"

"Yes, but you mustn't be taken in by his good looks and charm," said Crane, seriously. "The man's a notorious playboy, just like his friend Bruce Wayne."

Harley laughed. "Oh, I don't think he could possibly have any interest in me," she replied, at what she thought was a joke, adjusting her thick, round glasses and smoothing her blonde hair back into its tight bun. "I mean, I'm not…y'know…beautiful or glamorous or anything like that."

Crane opened his mouth to contradict her, but thought better of it. "I…think I will have that cup of tea now, if you don't mind, Professor," continued Harley, smiling at him. "I was just feeling a bit nervous before, and my stomach felt kinda unsettled. I thought you'd called me here because I was in trouble or something, and I've never really been in trouble before, y'know."

Crane stood up to pour her a cup of tea. "I just…y'know…the scholarship that I'm on means everything to me," Harley continued. "If I got in trouble and lost it somehow, if my grades dropped or something, I don't know what I'd do. My folks can't afford to send me to college without it, and I'd hate to disappoint them. And myself, of course. But wait until I tell them the news! They're gonna be so proud!"

"As well they should be," agreed Crane, handing her the mug. "You have exceptional talent, Harley. Combine that with your hard work ethic, and there's nothing you can't accomplish."

Harley beamed. "You're so supportive of me, Professor. How can I ever thank you?"

Crane studied her, smiling. "Well…just promise me when you're rich and successful, you'll still come back here to visit me occasionally."

"Of course I will, Professor," said Harley. "You're my closest friend here in Gotham."

"And you are…" Crane caught himself before he could say something embarrassing, and finished with, "…an incredible woman, Harley."

Harley shook her head, smiling. "Nah, I ain't," she said. "I'm just a poor girl from Brooklyn who's trying to do her best. It's harder than you think."

"Well, if I can ever be of any more service, please don't hesitate to contact me," said Crane. "For…anything you need, really."

"Thank you, Professor, but you've helped so much already," said Harley. She finished her tea and stood up. "I'm just gonna head home and call my parents. I can't wait to tell them the good news."

"Yes, and call Dr. Leland while you're at it," said Crane, handing her a piece of paper. "Here are her contact details. Perhaps I'll…speak to you again after you've met her and Mr. Dent. And Mr. Napier, of course."

Harley took the paper from him, and he touched her hand gently. "I…don't think I need to remind you to…take care around him," Crane said, softly. "A dangerous man like that, a gangster, I mean…just make sure you always have someone else with you when you speak to him. I don't know what I'd do if I was in some way responsible for…you being hurt."

"You're sweet, Professor, but being a poor girl from Brooklyn, I've got street smarts," replied Harley. "And not letting a dangerous criminal get you alone is pretty basic stuff."

"Of course, I'm just…cautious," stammered Crane. "Needlessly, of course – you're a smart girl, and you can take care of yourself."

"I do appreciate the concern, though," said Harley, smiling at him. "You sound like my Dad, always looking out for my safety." Without warning, she hugged him tightly. "Thanks again, Professor," she murmured. "I'll see you soon!"

She skipped out of the room. Jonathan Crane stared after her, flushed, and then sank into his chair. "I remind her of her father," he repeated. "Of course I'm old enough to be her father, so that's only natural. But still…not the impression I was hoping for."

He sighed, glancing through her papers again. "Anyway, a young, beautiful girl like that deserves a handsome young man. It's selfish of me to hope that she could ever…"

He trailed off. "And she's a student, Crane," he snapped. "You know you can't get involved with a student like that…"

He trailed off again, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm a rational man," he murmured. "I can overcome this. Anyway, she's going to be spending so much time away from the University now that I'll probably forget all about her. Dr. Leland will probably be just as impressed with her as I am, and offer her a job at Arkham right after she graduates. And she'll no doubt meet a handsome, charming, young man and settle down with him, and her life will be very happy. That's all I want for her. And she wouldn't be happy with me, someone old enough to be her father…"

He sighed, picking up the mug Harley had drunk out of. "But that's the annoying thing about hope," he muttered, glancing at where her lipstick had stained the rim. "It cannot be reasoned with. And I would try so very hard to make her happy every single day of my life, if she would only…"

He put down the mug, burying his face in his hands. "Dammit," he muttered. "You're in trouble, Crane. No doubt about it."


	3. Chapter 3

"Harleen Quinzel?"

Harley had been standing in front of the police station, her breath making little clouds in the chilly autumn air. She turned at the mention of her name to see a woman approaching her.

"Yes, but call me Harley. Everyone does. Are you Dr. Leland?"

"That's me," said Dr. Leland, extending her hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Professor Crane has told me some great things about you, and I'm really looking forward to working together. Should we go in? It's freezing out here."

"Yeah," agreed Harley. "I've never been inside a police station before," she said, as they entered the building. "Kinda scary how they have a metal detector and everything."

"We have one at Arkham," said Dr. Leland. "You've gotta get used to these things working around criminals and lunatics. It's no joke. They're dangerous people."

Dr. Leland approached the reception. "Is Mr. Dent here yet?" she asked.

"Believe me, you'd know," retorted the guard on duty, not looking up from his magazine.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Dr. Leland.

At that moment, the door to the station was thrown open, and a man entered, followed by a storm of flashing lights. "No press in the station!" shouted the guard, leaping to his feet and ushering the flashing cameras outside.

"Sorry about that, Tom, I just can't seem to shake them," sighed Harvey Dent, but he was smiling as he said it. He was just as handsome as he looked on his campaign posters, tall, dark, and with a winning smile, which he now turned to Harley and Dr. Leland.

"Ladies, Harvey Dent, it's a pleasure," he said, holding out his hand.

"Likewise, Mr. Dent," said Dr. Leland. "I'm Dr. Joan Leland, and this is Harleen Quinzel, my assistant."

"It's a shame that such beautiful young ladies are out to ruin my case for me," said Dent, beaming at them.

"We're not trying to do anything of the kind, Mr. Dent," retorted Dr. Leland. "We're trying to establish if Mr. Napier is in his right mind."

"And if he isn't, he gets safely bundled off to that neat little asylum of yours," said Dent, lighting a cigar. "And my campaign to put a dent in organized crime, if you'll forgive the pun, is back to square one. It would be so much better for me, and for Gotham, of course, if you could see your way to finding him mentally competent, and let the law takes its course by putting scum like that down, for good."

"Well, I'm sure we'll be better qualified to make that decision after we've spoken to Mr. Napier," said Dr. Leland.

"Of course," said Dent, nodding. "But…y'know…just bear it in mind," he murmured, exhaling a cloud of smoke and smiling. "And I'm sure this will end in a desirable outcome for all of us."

"Mr. Dent, Dr. Leland," said Commissioner Gordon, appearing from inside the station. "Mr. Napier's lawyer is already here. If you'll follow me to the interview room."

Harley glanced around as they walked past the cells, seeing the cold, desperate faces inside and idly wondering what made them into the criminals they were. Commissioner Gordon opened the door to the interview room and they all filed inside, taking a seat across the table from Jack Napier.

He studied them all with his bright, intense eyes, stopping at last at Harley and staring at her. Harley stared back – something about Mr. Napier seemed vaguely familiar, although she couldn't figure out why.

"Jack, this is Harvey Dent," said the lawyer.

"Yeah, hard to not recognize a guy whose face is plastered all over town," retorted Jack, turning his attention to Dent and smiling. "Think I've defaced a few of your posters myself. You should consider growing a moustache, by the way. Got a spare?" he asked, nodding at the cigar in Dent's hand. "I'd kill for a smoke."

"You probably have," retorted Dent. He didn't say anything else, just exhaled a cloud of smoke into Jack's face.

"And this is Dr. Joan Leland, head doctor at Arkham Asylum," continued the lawyer. "She's here to give you a psychiatric evaluation."

"Do I look crazy to you, Doc?" asked Jack, grinning.

"It's usually hard to tell from first appearances," replied Dr. Leland.

Jack grinned at her again. "And who's this?" he asked, nodding at Harley.

"Uh…this is…" the lawyer stammered. "Uh…"

"Harleen Quinzel," supplied Harley, nodding at Jack. "Pleased to meet ya."

Jack looked surprised, but that quickly changed to amusement, and he started laughing. "Harleen Quinzel," he repeated, beaming at her. "Harleen Frances Quinzel."

"Yeah, that's…right," stammered Harley, puzzled. "How did you…"

"You saying you don't remember me?" interrupted Jack. "I mean, I know you were young and all, but I'm still kinda offended, toots. Where's Mr. Bear?"

"He's…uh…at home. I…uh…I grew outta him, I guess," stammered Harley, still confused as to how this man knew so much about her. "Kids do."

"Huh. Thought you were special," retorted Jack, gazing at her. She gazed back in confusion. "Maybe I better let you in on the joke, toots – I met you in passing when you were about four years old," explained Jack. "You stopped at my old man's gas station, and took the wrap for me stealing his cigarettes. I said I owed you a favor. Still do."

"Oh…wow," said Harley, slowly. "I'm kinda surprised you remember that…"

"Hard to forget," interrupted Jack, nodding. "It was the day I beat my old man to death with a lead pipe. Happiest day of my life."

"You're voluntarily confessing to the murder of your father?" asked Dent, leaning forward eagerly.

"Yeah. I ain't sorry about it – he was a scumbag," said Jack, shrugging. "I'll do whatever time you wanna for that one."

Dent inhaled from his cigar. "I'm not interested in you doing any time, Mr. Napier," he murmured. "I'm interested in only two scenarios for you. One, you reveal to me all you can about the Valestra gang – how it operates, who it operates with, and where. A kinda plea bargain situation, where you get charged with a few petty felonies and are outta prison in a few years. Or two, you don't talk, and then you don't talk about anything ever again after I prosecute you for multiple counts of murder and get the judge to give you the death penalty. It's up to you which scenario you'd prefer. So take your pick."

"Or three, Doc Leland here finds me mentally incompetent, and I spend the rest of my life in a nice, cushy asylum," said Jack, grinning. "Frankly, I'm hoping for that one. Shouldn't be too hard to convince her that I'm completely outta my mind. I mean, you'd have to be, to work for Sal Valestra," he chuckled.

"If you don't like your former boss, why don't you let me put him behind bars?" asked Dent.

"Simple, really," retorted Jack. "Because I've seen what happens to squealers in this town. I've gutted a few of 'em myself. Snitches don't last long, in prison or outta it. And I ain't no snitch."

"So you want this case to go to trial?" murmured Dent. "You really want to pit me, the District Attorney of Gotham City, against your pathetic public defender? No offense, Mark," he said, nodding at the lawyer.

"Uh…none taken," stammered the lawyer.

"Yeah. Guess I'd have to be crazy to do that, huh, Doc?" asked Jack, grinning at Dr. Leland

Dent laughed. "If you think these ladies can save you from the electric chair, Mr. Napier, then I'd have to agree. You are crazy."

He stood up. "Well, I think we're done here. And I've got a very important lunch date across town, so I'd better get going. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Napier. I'll see you in court."

"How about that smoke, Harvey?" asked Jack.

Dent grinned. "I'll give it to you as a last request," he retorted. "See you later, Mark. Ladies."

He nodded and left. "Mr. Napier, I'd be interested in having a few private interview sessions with you before your trial to analyze your mental status," said Dr. Leland. "Would you be willing to submit to a full psychiatric evaluation?"

"I sure would, Doc," replied Jack, nodding. "On one condition, though."

"And that is?"

"I want her to interview me," said Jack, nodding at Harley.

Dr. Leland and Harley both stared at him. "She's not a fully qualified psychiatrist…" Dr. Leland began.

"I don't care," he interrupted. "I'm only gonna talk to her. I don't trust shrinks, or anybody, really. But I trust her," he murmured, looking at Harley.

Dr. Leland nodded slowly. "Harley, would you be willing to interview Mr. Napier in my place?" she asked, turning to face Harley. "If you tape record your sessions together, I can listen to them later and recommend alternate routes of questioning if necessary."

"I…uh…I…" stammered Harley. "I…would be happy to do anything you need, Dr. Leland," she finished. Although truthfully, she was a little frightened of Jack. He was looking at her with his bright, intense eyes, and his strange smile, and they made her feel uncomfortable.

"Good. That's settled, then," said Dr. Leland, standing up. "We'll arrange a time for your first interview sometime next week, Mr. Napier."

"Thanks, Doc, you're a pal," said Jack. "I'll see you around."

Dr. Leland nodded and headed for the door. Harley rose to follow her. "I'll see you soon, Harley," murmured Jack.

"Yeah…uh…I'm looking forward to it," stammered Harley.

"So am I," he murmured. He winked at her. "Take care of yourself, kid," he muttered.

"Was his story true?" asked Dr. Leland as she and Harley left the station together. "About meeting you when you were a child?"

"I…don't really remember it," said Harley. "But he did seem vaguely familiar. And he knew my middle name, and about my teddy bear, so I guess it is."

Dr. Leland sighed, shaking her head. "Wow. If only you'd known then, maybe you could have prevented a murder. Although God knows it's not helpful to think like that. You don't remember him at all?"

Harley was silent. "I kinda remember…a boy," she murmured. "A really angry boy. But sweet, really, underneath it all. Just…really badly hurt, y'know?"

Dr. Leland nodded slowly. "Yeah. His life is gonna depend on you finding those scars, Harley."

"Don't worry, Dr. Leland," murmured Harley. "I'm sure I can."


	4. Chapter 4

Harley started the tape recorder and then sat down, tapping her pen nervously on her notepad. She wrote a heading at the top _Jack Napier Interview #1 _and then underlined it twice. She coughed, then stopped the tape recorder and rewound it, making sure it had recorded the cough and was working properly. Then she started it again.

A knock came on the door. "Come in," said Harley.

Jack Napier was dragged inside, between two guards. They sat him down on the therapy couch, then chained his feet to the feet of the sofa. They checked that his handcuffs were secured, and then one said, "We'll be just outside if you need us. Press the call button," he said, nodding at the red button by Harley's chair.

"Ok, thanks," said Harley. They left, shutting the door behind them.

Harley turned to look at Jack, who was smiling at her. "There's no need for these," he said, holding up his handcuffs. "I ain't a wild animal."

"I think that remains to be determined," murmured Harley. "I just think I should let you know from the start, Mr. Napier, that you're being recorded, so everything you say to me is being taken down."

"Well, I'll try to watch my language, then," said Jack, grinning. Harley didn't grin back.

Jack sighed. "You got me chained up, and taped," he muttered. "If I didn't know better, kid, I'd say you were afraid of me."

Harley didn't know how to respond. He looked up at her. "Are you afraid of me?" he murmured.

She shook her head. "No. I mean…well, no more so than anyone would be of a dangerous man."

"You think I would hurt you?" he murmured. "When I owe you a favor?"

"I think the memory of something that happened twenty years ago won't necessarily prevent a man like you from taking what he wants," murmured Harley.

Jack stared at her. "A man like me," he repeated. He snorted, leaning back on the couch. "You've changed, kid," he muttered. "The Harleen Quinzel I remember wouldn't have cared what other people thought about me. In fact, she didn't. When my old man treated me like dirt, when your parents looked at me like some worthless piece of trash, did you care? No. You said we were friends. But I see you've grown up to be just like everyone else. Shame, really. I've thought about you a lot over the years, and I always hoped you hadn't changed. That you were still sweet and good and innocent, kind, caring, loving, and non-judgmental. But I guess you can't really live in this cruel, crazy world without losing all those things. I guess you ain't special, after all."

Harley looked at him. "Well…this interview isn't about me, Mr. Napier, it's about you," she murmured.

"Don't call me that," he muttered. "You know I hate that name."

"No, Mr. Napier, I don't," retorted Harley. "I'm sorry if the incident you're referring to, this passing meeting we had, isn't as fresh in my mind as it is in yours, but I was four years old at the time…"

"Nearly four," he corrected.

"Be that as it may, I recall little to nothing about it," said Harley, firmly.

"But you do recall something about it?" he asked. "What?"

Harley gazed back at him. "I remember your face," she murmured. "And your eyes. So full of rage and hatred and…pain. They haven't changed."

"Yeah, at least some things don't," retorted Jack.

"Mr. Napier…"

"I said don't call me that!" shouted Jack. "I beat my old man to death so I wouldn't be stuck with anything of his, including his goddamn name!"

Harley was silent at the outburst. Jack took a deep breath. "Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean to shout at you…or swear. You've told me off for that before."

"What should I call you then?" murmured Harley. "Jack?"

"If you wanna," he retorted, shrugging. "That's my name. But calling me that's as boring and unimaginative as naming your teddy bear Mr. Bear."

Harley just looked at him. "Mr. J?" she suggested.

He grinned. "I like Mr. J," he murmured.

"Well, then, Mr. J, if I may ask, why is our past meeting so important to you?" asked Harley. "I understand that the day itself is relevant in terms of your father's murder, but I don't understand why you'd remember me in particular."

He laughed. "Don't you?" he murmured, smiling at her. She shook her head. Jack shrugged. "Well…all my life I been…treated like scum," he murmured. "My old man hated me, my Mom hated me so much she ran away. Even as a kid going around Gotham, heading to the store in rags and dirty clothes, people would just look at you…everyone…like you were…trash. Like you were worthless, y'know?"

He sighed. "And when you feel worthless…you begin to hate. Everything. Everyone who made you feel worthless, which is everyone in the whole world. But when I met you…for the first time…I met someone who didn't judge me as worthless. Someone who said we were friends, who accepted me for who I am. Someone who just smiled at me and looked at me like…I was the most special person in her world. Obviously I wasn't, but…y'know…it felt that way to me. Anyway, I ain't ever experienced that, before or since, what it felt like to be…valued, loved, I dunno. But it was a nice feeling, and a nice memory. One that stayed with me. I don't think that's so crazy."

"No, it…it isn't," murmured Harley. She realized she was staring at him, and forced her eyes back down to her notepad. But she didn't write anything down.

"Uh…so, tell me, Mr. J," she murmured. "What drove you to murder your own father?"

Jack laughed. "What _didn't _drive me to murder my father?" he chuckled. "He was a scumbag. A drunken, violent bully, and he'd take his rage out on me whenever he could. The only thing I remember about my mother is her screams when he hit her. After she left, I was his only punching bag. He blamed me for her running off, because he wasn't man enough to blame himself. He was a coward. I've been a lotta things in my life, but no one can say I've ever been a coward. And frankly, my old man got what was coming to him. I don't like to think of it as murder."

"Because the idea of murdering your own father would be too horrible to bear if you gave it that definition?" asked Harley.

"Nah," he retorted. "Because you don't call it murder when you kill a cockroach, do ya? You don't call pest control murderers. Well, that's what I was. Pest control."

Harley began writing something down. "You don't call it murder if it's justified, do ya?" asked Jack. "If I get the chair, nobody's gonna say the state murdered me. They're gonna say it was justified. Well, if killing was ever justified, my old man's killing was."

Harley put down the pen. "Mr. J, the purpose of these interviews is to establish whether or not you are insane," she murmured. "If you are not, you will go to court, where Harvey Dent will press for the death penalty. But if you are, Dr. Leland will take care of you in Arkham Asylum to the end of your days."

"I know that, toots," he said. "What's your point?"

"My point is, at the moment, you're sounding a little too sane to me," murmured Harley. "And I'd just like you to consider whether that's what you intend."

Jack stared at her. Then he reached for the tape recorder, turning it off suddenly. "Don't…" began Harley.

"No, I want this to be just between us," he murmured, leaning forward. "Are you saying you wanna save me?"

"Of course I do," murmured Harley. "I couldn't stand the thought that any evaluation of mine had sent a man to the electric chair."

"And how far are you willing to bend the rules to accomplish that?" murmured Jack. "How far are you willing to go for me?"

Harley stared back at him. "I will honestly report all my findings to Dr. Leland," she murmured. "If you tell me things that corroborate your sanity, I will tell her that. If you tell me things that do not, I will tell her that. But it's not up to me, Mr. J. It's up to you."

Jack grinned, leaning back. "Y'know, for a moment there, I almost thought you cared about me," he chuckled. "I almost thought good little Harleen Quinzel was gonna do something a little naughty. But you ain't that kinda girl, are ya, toots?"

"No, I am not," replied Harley. She turned on the tape recorder again. "So, Mr. J, why did you murder your own father?"

Jack grinned. "Because I felt like it," he murmured. "Because I thought it would be funny. Because it seemed like one great, big, hilarious joke."

"Tell me more," murmured Harley, beginning to write.


	5. Chapter 5

"So how is Mr. Napier?" asked Jonathan Crane, pouring Harley a cup of tea.

"Oh, he's…interesting," said Harley, taking the mug from him and smiling. "Not as dangerous as you might think, though. He actually seems like quite a sweet man."

Crane stopped with the cup halfway to his lips. "Sweet?" he repeated.

Harley shrugged. "As gangsters go," she said. "He doesn't raise his voice or swear or anything. He really seems to respect me."

"That's unusual in a criminal," said Crane. "Normally psychiatrists are as bad as policemen in their eyes."

"Well, Mr. J's always saying I'm not a real shrink," replied Harley.

"Mr…J?" asked Crane.

"That's what I call Mr. Napier," said Harley. "He hates the name Napier - it was his father's name, and he hated his father so much, he killed him."

"Oh…I see," stammered Crane. "How, might one ask?"

"Beat him to death," said Harley, casually, sipping her tea. "With a lead pipe. He says it was like crushing a cockroach, only with a lot more blood."

Harley was smiling, but that fell when she noticed the look of horror on Crane's face. "Just…the way he says it," she said, shrugging again. "It's kinda funny."

"I'm…not sure I understand how anyone describing beating his own father to death can be funny," muttered Crane. "Lord knows my relationship with my father wasn't the greatest, but I would never even have considered…"

"Yeah, but you're a nice guy, Professor," said Harley. "Mr. J's a bad man."

There was something in Harley's eyes when she said that, some spark, that concerned Crane. He opened his mouth to question her further when Harley's cell phone rang suddenly.

"Oh, it's Dr. Leland," said Harley, looking at it. "If you'll just excuse me for one second, Professor Crane. Hello? Hi, Dr. Leland, what can I do for you? Uh huh. Oh, well, that's really kind of him. Yeah. Oh, well, I don't really have a…I see. Ok. 7 o'clock? I'll be there. Ok, see you soon. Bye."

She hung up the phone. "Geez, this is all so sudden," she said, beaming. "Harvey Dent has invited Dr. Leland and me to some big, fancy dinner he's hosting at Wayne Manor tonight. We'll be meeting Bruce Wayne!"

"Harvey Dent, Bruce Wayne – you're rubbing elbows with all sorts of celebrities these days, Harley," said Crane, smiling. "I'm a little jealous."

"You should come with me," said Harley. "Dr. Leland told me to bring a date – everyone else is."

Crane stared at her. "You'd…like me to come with you…as your date?" he stammered.

"Sure," said Harley. "I mean, if you've got something to wear. I've gotta get home and raid my closet. There's gotta be some nice dress stuffed away in there somewhere. You wanna pick me up at 6.30 and we can drive to Wayne Manor together?"

"I would…love that," stammered Crane.

Harley smiled. "It's a date, then," she said, heading for the door. "I'll see you tonight, Professor."

"Oh…uh…Harley," he said, catching her arm. "Um…just for tonight…do you think you could call me Jonathan?"

"If you want," said Harley. "How about Johnny? I kinda prefer that."

"Oh…yes…so do I," said Crane, slowly. He loathed the name Johnny, but for Harley, he would pretend he didn't. "Johnny it is."

Harley beamed. "I'll see you tonight, Johnny."

Several hours later, a knock came on Harley's door. She opened it to reveal Crane dressed in a clean, brown suit, his red hair combed back, and a bouquet of red roses in his hands, which he intended to present to Harley. But the moment he saw her, dressed in a flowing, red, mermaid-style evening gown, her blonde hair loose and curled down her back, and her wide, blue eyes even wider without their usual glasses frame, he found he could only stare at her in amazement.

"Does it look ok?" asked Harley, worried. "I'm a little concerned about the contact lenses – I don't normally wear 'em…"

"You are the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth," whispered Crane. He cleared his throat. "And these are for you," he said, handing her the roses.

"Aw, Johnny, you didn't have to do that!" exclaimed Harley. "But thank you – they're beautiful! C'mon in while I put them in some water."

She entered the kitchen, reaching for a vase. "I ain't used to getting dressed up like this," she said. "Poor girl from Brooklyn, y'know. I'm gonna be terrified I'll say or do something stupid among the social elite tonight."

"If they're not utterly enchanted by you, then they're fools," murmured Crane.

"You're so sweet, Johnny," said Harley, smiling at him and arranging the flowers in the vase. She glanced at the clock. "We'd better get going if we don't wanna be late. Unless that's fashionable. I don't wanna do something stupid like arrive on time unless that's what rich people do…"

"I think you shouldn't worry about what rich people do, and just be yourself," interrupted Crane. "Because then they'll love you, just like I…"

He caught himself before he finished the sentence. Harley just looked at him. "Just like you what?" she asked, puzzled.

"Just like I…hope they will," he invented quickly.

Harley grinned. "I hope they will too," she said, taking his hand. "Let's go, Johnny."

That had been close, thought Crane, as he drove. But voicing his feelings was almost unavoidable – Harley just looked so beautiful. He had to tell her. And he would tell her, by the end of the party, he resolved suddenly. He would tell her he loved her tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

Alfred opened the door to Wayne Manor. "Miss Quinzel, I presume?" he said.

"Yes, and this is Professor Crane," said Harley. "Uh…Mr. Dent is expecting us, I think."

"He is, madam. Right this way, please," said Alfred, ushering her inside. "May I take your coats?"

"Oh…thanks," said Harley. "Do you…uh…need a tip?"

"That's not at all necessary, madam – it is my job," replied Alfred, helping her off with her wrap. "Mr. Dent is in the drawing room – do allow me to escort you."

"You from England?" asked Harley.

"I am, madam," said Alfred, nodding.

"I've never been, but I hear it's nice," said Harley. "Why'd you leave a beautiful country like that to come over to Gotham and become a servant for some rich family?"

Alfred turned to look at her. "Service has been a long-standing tradition for the Pennyworths, madam, and in our family, it is considered one of the highest honors imaginable," he replied.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you…" began Harley.

"No offense taken at all, madam," said Alfred, opening the door to the living room.

"Really? Because your tone sounds kinda offended," said Harley.

"That's just Alfred being British," retorted Harvey Dent, coming over to them and smiling. "But he's a treasure, really. I don't know what Bruce would do without you, Alfred."

"I dread to think, sir," retorted Alfred, bowing and leaving the room.

"Harley, so glad you could make it," said Dent, embracing her and kissing both her cheeks. "You look stunning."

"Oh…thanks, Mr. Dent," said Harley. "Uh…this is Professor Johnny Crane, my date for this evening."

"You're a lucky man, Professor Crane," said Dent, shaking Crane's hand. "Harley's clearly the second most gorgeous woman in this room, aside from my date, of course. Pammie, come meet our guests!"

A beautiful woman with long, red hair came over to them. "Harley, Johnny, this is Dr. Pamela Isley," said Dent. "She's a botanical biochemist at Wayne Industries, and, as you can see, she's got looks as well as brains."

"But you'll never guess which one Harvey is more interested in," said Isley, dryly. "Not that I can fault him for that. I'm only dating him because he's the most charming and attractive specimen of manhood I've ever come across."

"She also enjoys my money," added Dent, grinning.

"And your money-maker," purred Isley, spanking him playfully. Dent chuckled, pulling her into his arms for a kiss.

"You two seem…very happy," said Harley, slowly. "How long have you been together?"

"Since before my campaign," replied Dent. "Pammie helped me run it – she's got a good head for politics."

"I just look at politics the same way I look at gardening," said Isley. "Encourage the promising flowers to grow, trim back the vegetation, and root out the weeds. I can't say being the girlfriend of the District Attorney has been a lifelong dream of mine, but I do like a man with power," murmured Isley, kissing him again.

"What about you two?" asked Dent, nodding at Harley and Crane. "How long have you been together?"

"Oh…we're not a couple," laughed Harley. "Johnny is my psychology professor at Gotham University. He's also my best friend. He got me this job with Dr. Leland, which I owe him forever for," she said, smiling at him.

Crane was too preoccupied by the fact that Harley had laughed at the idea of them being a couple to return her smile. Did that mean she found the idea laughable? Absurd? Would she laugh when he told her he loved her?

He was distracted by the door opening. "Bruce, there you are!" exclaimed Dent. "It's about time!"

"Sorry, Harvey, I was just showing Selina around the house," said Bruce Wayne, nodding at the beautiful young woman on his arm.

"Oh, is that what you were doing?" asked Dent, smiling. "How was the bedroom, Selina?"

"Nice," replied the woman, smiling back at him. "Tastefully decorated."

"Well, Bruce spends a lotta time in there," said Dent.

"I'm hoping to as well," said the woman, grinning and cuddling Bruce's arm.

"Come meet our guests. Johnny, Harley, this is Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle," said Dent, nodding at them.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Wayne," said Harley. "And thank you so much for having us. You have a beautiful home."

"I can't take much credit for it – Alfred handles the cleaning, decorating, arranging, that kinda thing," said Bruce, smiling. "But I'm glad you like it. I'm sure he'll be pleased to know all his hard work is appreciated."

The door opened again and Alfred entered. "Dr. Joan Leland, sir."

"Sorry I'm late," said Dr. Leland, entering the room. "My date was meant to drive me, but he cancelled at the last minute, so I had to get a cab."

"That's all right, Joan, we're just glad you're here now," said Dent, smiling and embracing her. "Partially because I'm starving. Is dinner ready yet, Alfred?"

"If you'd like to take your seats in the dining room, sir, it will be served momentarily," replied Alfred.

"After you, ladies," said Dent, holding the door open.

Harley took her seat in the dining room and gazed in confusion at the layers of silverware before her. Crane was seated next to her and leaned over. "Start from the outside and work your way in," he muttered, nodding at the forks.

"Thanks, Johnny," whispered Harley, beaming at him as Alfred served the starter.

"How's your case going, Harvey?" asked Bruce.

"Let's not bring business into a pleasurable evening like this, huh, Bruce?" asked Dent, smiling at him. "Anyway, it's not me you have to ask about that. It's these ladies. They're the ones who get to decide if I actually get to prosecute this case."

"Mr. Napier will still be going to court, regardless of his mental state," said Dr. Leland.

"Well, prosecuting a mentally ill man isn't exactly what I was hoping to do for my first case as District Attorney," replied Dent, smiling.

Isley snorted. "Mentally ill," she muttered. "Harvey's told me about this Napier guy, and he seems perfectly sane to me. He's been a hitman in the Valestra gang for years, and correct me if I'm wrong, but if he was a raving lunatic, he probably wouldn't have lasted long in any gang."

"Just because Mr. Napier's not a raving lunatic doesn't mean he's of sound mind," said Dr. Leland.

"No," agreed Isley. "But if I were a criminal who was gonna be prosecuted by Harvey, I'd do my best to fake insanity too."

"Well, Harley and I are here to make sure he doesn't fake insanity," replied Dr. Leland. "I've been working around lunatics a long time, Dr. Isley, and I think I can tell the difference between actual insanity and an act."

"Can Harley?" asked Isley, glancing at Harley.

"I like to think so, yes," replied Dr. Leland. "Anyway, I listen to the tapes of all their sessions."

"And how does he seem to you?" asked Isley.

Dr. Leland was silent. "I'm not sure we should be discussing this so informally…"

"Joan's right – this is neither the time nor the place," interrupted Dent, firmly.

"All I will say is that it's going to take a lot more than Mr. Napier talking about his feelings to convince me that he belongs in Arkham," said Dr. Leland.

Isley smiled. "You're clearly a smart woman, Dr. Leland, and not the type to be taken in by a cunning man's performance," she murmured. "What about you, Harley?" she asked, turning to her.

Harley didn't know how to respond to that, but she was saved the trouble of doing so by Alfred bringing the second course, and Bruce Wayne changing the subject to a recent charity benefit he had hosted.

It soon became quite clear to Harley that she was out of her depth here. She only grew even more uncomfortable as the conversation between Selina and Isley changed to shoes and handbags, none of which Harley had heard of, or could afford even if she had. She attempted to concentrate on her meal, which was good, since it took all of her skill to try to figure out how to eat an artichoke.

At last, the ordeal that was dinner finished, and everyone returned to the drawing room, where Alfred was serving coffee. Dent caught Harley's arm as she left the dining room. "Um…Harley, I was wondering if I could have a word with you in private?" he asked, quietly.

"Oh…sure, Mr. Dent," said Harley, surprised.

"Please, call me Harvey," he said, leading her out onto the balcony and shutting the door behind them.

The night was chilly, and Harley shivered. Dent noticed, taking off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. "Do you smoke?" he asked, holding out a cigar to her.

She shook her head, and he laughed. "You're a better person than me," he said, lighting it. "I started in college. It's a bad habit, but, y'know, everyone was doing it. And I've always been the kinda guy who enjoys being popular."

Harley didn't know how to respond, so she just smiled. "Uh…what's this about, Harvey?" she asked.

"Oh, just what we were talking about at dinner," said Dent, casually. "Y'know, the case. Mr. Napier."

"Oh," said Harley, her face falling. "What about him?"

He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "You think he's sane, don't you?" he murmured.

"I…don't think we should really be discussing it, like Dr. Leland said…" began Harley.

"Harley, maybe I should explain to you a little of what I'm trying to do for this city," interrupted Dent. "You've been in Gotham a while now. You've seen that it's a city with problems. Crime being the biggest."

"Yeah…there's crime in Brooklyn too," murmured Harley. "Kinda goes hand in hand with a big city, I guess."

"Yes, I suppose you could just accept it like that," agreed Dent, nodding. "Until something happens to you, or someone you loved. Then I think you'd probably take it a bit more personally. The people of this city shouldn't have to live in fear of gang violence, Harley. The law needs to protect them. It needs to get crime under control. I ran for District Attorney of this city because I believe that Gotham can take control of its criminals, and show them that this kind of gang violence is not going to be tolerated."

"What does any of this have to do with Mr. Napier's sanity?" murmured Harley.

Dent inhaled from his cigar. "I wanna make an example of Mr. Napier," he murmured. "I wanna show every thug, every gangster, every piece of scum in this town the price you pay for crossing Harvey Dent, and the price you pay for being a criminal in my city. If I succeed in giving Mr. Napier the chair, that message will hit home. Organized crime will drop, I guarantee it. Hundreds of lives will be saved."

"So you wanna sacrifice Mr. Napier's life to save these hundreds?" murmured Harley.

"Why not?" asked Dent. "He's scum. Just another criminal, a hitman, a man who's probably taken a hundred lives in his time. He deserves to die."

"I…don't think that's true, Harvey," murmured Harley.

"Why?" asked Dent. "What's he told you? You shouldn't listen to a word he says, you know. He's lying. He's playing you for a fool. Criminals are tricky like that. Cunning."

"You don't know him," murmured Harley.

"Neither do you," retorted Dent. "You only know what he's told you. But it's all lies, Harley, I promise you. He'd say whatever he has to to save his own skin."

Harley was silent. "Has he told you anything about the Valestra gang?" asked Dent.

"He's told me the electric chair would be preferable to what they would do to him if he squealed," murmured Harley. "I believe him."

Dent studied her. "I'm a powerful man, Harley," he murmured. "What is it you want? I can get it for you."

"In exchange for me declaring Mr. Napier sane, is that it?" asked Harley. "Are you trying to bribe me, Harvey?"

He shrugged. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, Harley. But it's not a bribe. Just a little incentive to help you see things my way."

He leaned forward. "What is it you want?" he repeated. "Money? Fame? Me?"

She started back. "Harvey…I hope I haven't given you the wrong impression…"

"I'm just letting you know how far I'm willing to go for what I know to be right," murmured Dent. "How far are you willing to go, Harley?"

He pulled her into his arms. "What is it you want?" he whispered, bringing his mouth down to hers.

"I…I…want…" whispered Harley. She was dazed and confused, by the situation, by Dent's advances, by the question itself. Her mind didn't quite comprehend what was happening. "I…want…Mr. J," she whispered, as their lips touched.

The realization of what she had just said startled her awake again, and she shoved Dent away from her. "No…I'm…sorry…Harvey. I…I…gotta go," she stammered, heading for the door. She re-entered the drawing room, flushed and still confused, and stammered, "Johnny, can you drive me home?"

"Harley, are you ok?" asked Isley, noticing her red face.

"I'm fine, just got a little…headache," gasped Harley. "I wanna get straight home to bed…can you please drive me, Johnny?"

"Yes, of course, Harley," he said, putting down his drink as Alfred got their coats.

"Please…uh…thank Mr. Dent for the party, and…uh…nice meeting you all," stammered Harley. "Goodnight."

Crane studied Harley on the drive back to her apartment. She didn't say a word – just looked out the window. "Are you feeling all right now?" he asked as he pulled up in front of her building.

Harley took a deep breath. "Much better, thanks, Johnny," she said, forcing a smile as she turned to him. "Thanks for the lift. I'll see you soon. Goodnight," she said, opening the car door.

"Uh…Harley…could I…have a quick word?" he asked.

Harley sighed heavily. "Can it wait, Johnny?" she asked. "I'm just really tired right now, y'know."

"Yes…yes, it can wait," stammered Crane. "Not very important anyway, actually."

"Oh. Ok," said Harley, stepping out of the car. "Well, thanks again for the lift, and for coming with me tonight. I'll see you soon."

She shut the car door and entered her apartment. Crane watched her until she disappeared, and then sighed. "It's for the best she doesn't know," he murmured, backing the car out and driving off. "Definitely for the best."


	7. Chapter 7

"You ok, kid?" asked Jack the next day.

Harley looked up from her notes to see him gazing at her in concern. "Yeah, just…uh…tired," said Harley, rubbing her eyes. "Didn't sleep well last night. I was out late at a party at Wayne Manor."

Jack whistled. "Did you case the joint?" he asked. "Bet it's got a lotta valuable stuff just lying around. Gold, silver, antiques…"

Harley snapped off the tape recorder. "Mr. J, the last thing we need to have on record is you plotting a burglary at Wayne Manor!" she snapped.

"How am I gonna hit Wayne Manor locked up in here?" demanded Jack. "I was asking you if _you _cased the joint!"

"I'm not a criminal!" snapped Harley. "So no, I didn't!"

"Must have been some crap party, kiddo," muttered Jack. "You're in a terrible mood today."

Harley sighed. "Sorry. It's just…it _was_ a pretty crap party, actually."

Jack studied her. "You wanna talk about it?" he asked.

"No," she muttered. "No, I just wanna forget…" She trailed off, shutting her eyes. "Harvey Dent tried to bribe me into declaring you sane," she murmured.

"Oh," said Jack. "What did you say?"

"What do you think I said?" snapped Harley. "You think I'm the kinda person who accepts bribes?!"

Jack shrugged. "If it was good enough, I wouldn't blame you. What was his offer?"

"Whatever I wanted," murmured Harley.

"And what was that?" asked Jack.

Harley gazed at him. "I…I dunno," she stammered, looking away. Tears rose to her eyes, and she wiped them away hurriedly.

"Oh God, kid, please don't cry," murmured Jack. "I mean, the party can't have been that bad, huh?"

"It…it ain't the party," whispered Harley, trying to hold back her tears unsuccessfully. "It's…just…the…"

She burst into tears, burying her face in her hands and sobbing. "Hey, hey, kid, no," murmured Jack. "No, c'mon, please, don't do that. That's the worst thing ever, worse than the chair for me. Now, c'mon, kiddo, stop crying. Smile. Please."

He approached her, chains rattling. The chain on his leg prevented him from reaching her, but Harley started up and threw herself into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder. He shushed her gently, handcuffs clinking together as he stroked her hair.

"I'm sorry," gasped Harley, pulling away at last. "I'm sorry, I…can't act like this. I have to get ahold of myself and be rational. Unlike you," she added, smiling. "You gotta be…"

She trailed off, moving her chair closer as she sat down, thinking hard. She looked at him steadily and then whispered, "Dr. Leland thinks you're putting on an act."

Jack shrugged. "She's a smart gal," he said.

"Yeah," agreed Harley. "So we've gotta try harder to convince her of your insanity."

Jack laughed. "What do you want me to do, kid? Strip naked and start speaking in tongues? Scratch the names of my victims into my flesh? Maybe try to eat my own arm or something?"

Harley shook her head slowly. "I want you to…attack me," she murmured.

Jack looked horrified. "No, kid, no," he murmured. "I can't do that. I'd rather eat my own arm off."

"Our interviews have shown that you trust me, that you care about me," murmured Harley. "To suddenly turn on a person you care about, to treat them violently, that's insane. Especially when there's no provocation."

She looked at him. "I'm going to turn the tape recorder back on, and you are going to attack me. For no reason."

"Kid, you can't ask me to hurt you," muttered Jack. "I…can't do that. I would hurt anyone else, but not…"

"Do this for me," murmured Harley, tears filling her eyes again. "If you're sentenced to die, you don't want my tears to be the last thing you ever see. Do you?"

Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Y'know this is wrong, don't you?" he asked. "Staging this to lie about my sanity. I'm surprised you're comfortable with it."

"No, what's wrong is letting Harvey Dent send you to the electric chair to make an example of you," interrupted Harley. "That's what he wants, Mr. J. He told me. I can't let that happen. So please do this. For me."

Jack nodded slowly. "I…I'll try to be gentle…" he began.

"No!" hissed Harley. "You attack me, and you make it hurt, God dammit! I want to be in real pain! I don't want anyone to have a shadow of a doubt that this is all genuine!"

Jack stared at her. "Since when did you swear, Harleen Quinzel?" he asked, a note of amusement in his voice. "That's not what good girls do."

"Since you stopped doing what you're told!" snapped Harley. "You have to trust me, Mr. J! Please!"

Jack sighed again. "This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and I've tortured a guy to death while his wife watched," he muttered.

"I guess I'll take that as a compliment," said Harley. "Are you ready? I'm going to start the tape recorder."

"As ready as I'll ever be," sighed Jack.

Harley nodded, pressing the record button. "Now Mr. J, tell me about your…" she began.

Her voice choked in her throat as he seized her around the neck, squeezing hard. Harley gasped at the sudden sensation, at the inability to breathe, at the fear, the terror, that seized her heart…

And then…something else. Something else as her heart pounded in her chest, as the blood surged through her veins, as she stared into his face, at the pain in his deep, intense eyes.

He drew her close, still grasping her tightly around the throat, and his breath tickled her ear as he whispered, in the softest voice, "I'm sorry."

And then he raised his hand and hit her. Harley gasped in pain. Her mind was racing - she needed to scream, she needed to press the call button and summon the guards…but she didn't want to. She wanted pain. More pain. Pain that only he could give her.

He struck her again, and Harley moaned slightly. It hurt – she could feel blood trickling from her nose. But she could feel something else rising inside of her, some need, some desperate yearning that she had never felt before. The pain was pleasurable, a type of pleasure she had never experienced.

She met his eyes, and he stared back into hers, shocked at what he saw. "Oh my God," he whispered.

And then he seized her face in his hands and shoved his mouth into hers, mauling her wildly. Harley returned the kiss with equal passion, clutching his body tightly against hers as he pressed her back into her chair, working at his belt. Harley was lost in a delirium of pleasure, pleasure such as she had never know, but somewhere her rational mind asserted itself. Her body was throbbing with need as he tried to pull up her skirt, but one hand forced it back down while the other slammed down on the call button.

Guards burst into the room, and were upon Jack in an instant, dragging him off her. Harley burst into tears at being separated from him, at leaving her aching need unfulfilled, but the guards interpreted it differently, as she hoped they would. She heard them shouting, but she couldn't make out the words. She couldn't see anything but Jack's face, gazing at her in a mixture of desire and frustration. She wished she could say something to him, but he was dragged away in an instant, leaving Harley alone.

People arrived shortly after that, bringing Harley back to reality. A nurse, a doctor, policemen, guards, Dr. Leland, all of them asking how she was, if she was hurt, telling her how shaken she must be after her sexual assault.

It had been a sexual assault. But not an involuntary one, thought Harley. She hoped to God it would prove Jack was crazy. It certainly proved she was.


	8. Chapter 8

There was a frantic knocking on the door to Harley's apartment. She opened it. "Johnny, what…"

"Dr. Leland called – I came straight round as soon as I heard," interrupted Crane, seizing her in his arms and hugging her tightly. "That monster! That brute! Oh God…you must have been so frightened!"

"Oh…yeah. Yeah, I was, Johnny," murmured Harley, hugging him in return. She shut her eyes, trying not to remember the incident. But she couldn't help it. The feel of Jack's hands and mouth and tongue all came rushing back to her suddenly, and she wanted them again, so much that it hurt.

"You…didn't have to rush over here," she stammered, forcing a smile as she drew away. "But it was sweet of you."

"My God, look what he's done to your beautiful face," murmured Crane, raising a hand and gently touching her bruised cheek. Harley flinched.

"Yeah, he's a…bad man," she murmured.

"He's a fiend!" hissed Crane. "How any man could hurt you and…attempt to violate you like that…"

He trailed off, sinking into a chair. "Oh God, this is all my fault!" he gasped. "If I hadn't recommended you for that stupid job…"

"No, Johnny, you can't blame yourself for this," said Harley, firmly. "It was my fault. You warned me not to be alone with him, and I didn't listen…"

"It was _not _your fault!" snapped Crane. "It was that monster's fault! God, I hope Harvey Dent gets to send him to the chair for this! It would be well deserved!"

"Attempted rape is hardly a capital offense…" began Harley.

"By God, it should be!" shouted Crane. "How any man could have the heart to raise a hand to you, an angel among women…"

"Look, it's not a big deal, Johnny, really," murmured Harley. "I'm fine. And you can't really blame him for not being in control of his actions – he's mentally ill…"

"You're…defending him?" stammered Crane, aghast.

"I'm just saying he's not entirely responsible for what he does," said Harley. "He's insane."

"You can't seriously buy that pathetic act, can you?" snapped Crane. "Because I assure you, nobody else does!"

"You don't…know him, Johnny," stammered Harley. "I…can't let them…kill him…I can't…"

She sobbed, and Crane embraced her again, shushing her. "My dear, you are the sweetest, gentlest woman in the world," he murmured. "And I admire your kindness and sympathy, even in this situation. But Jack Napier's life is out of your hands. The law must take its course."

"I…I ain't sweet or gentle, Johnny," murmured Harley, remembering again how she had felt when Jack had hit her. "I've tried to be. All my life I've tried to be good, doing what people expect of me, my parents, society…but maybe…maybe deep down…I ain't so good after all. And maybe it would be a crime of me to deny my true nature, as much of a crime as anything Jack Napier has done."

"I think you're still confused and shaken from your assault, my dear," murmured Crane. "I think you are so kind and selfless that you are actually trying to assign yourself blame for this attack. You're trying to convince yourself that you deserve that punishment, somehow. But you don't, my dear. You are nothing but innocent."

"I'm…not innocent, Johnny," stammered Harley, remembering how she had felt. "I…I…think I might be crazy," she whispered.

"My dear, an enormous responsibility has been placed on your shoulders, a responsibility you should never have had to bear," murmured Crane. "You were meant to assist Dr. Leland in giving a psychiatric evaluation of a patient, but the monster insisted the burden of responsibility be on you, even though you are not yet a qualified psychiatrist. Then he played with your sympathies, and made you doubt yourself, and look at the result. Dr. Leland and I have concluded that the only sensible course is to remove you from the case."

"What? No!" cried Harley. "I…I can't let this beat me…"

"My dear, no one would dream of being so heartless as to force you to continue to interview a man who tried to violate you," said Crane. "Dr. Leland will be handling the remainder of his sessions, and will make her diagnosis by the end of the week. And assuming all goes to plan, Mr. Napier will be in court on Monday. And the charges of assault and attempted rape will be added to his list of felonies."

"I…I ain't gonna testify against him!" stammered Harley. "He's…he's a sick man…he needs to be put safely away in Arkham…"

"I have no doubt Mr. Dent will put him away for good," said Crane, nodding. "I have absolute faith in him."

"Johnny, I…I can't just go back to living a normal life, to being a regular student, knowing that I've sent a man to the electric chair," whispered Harley. "I'll never be able to live with myself."

She sank into a chair, and Crane sat down next to her. "I have to see him," she murmured.

"I would have thought that was the last thing you wanted to do," said Crane.

"You can't run away from your fears, Johnny," murmured Harley. "You know that. You have to face them."

She sighed, burying her face in her hands. "Fear's a scarecrow, Johnny," she murmured.

"What?" he asked.

She wiped her eyes. "Just something my Mom used to say," murmured Harley. "She grew up on a farm upstate. When she was little, there was this scarecrow in one of the fields that used to terrify her. Its face, or the way it hung, or something…she just didn't like it. But one day she faced her fears and walked right up to that scarecrow, and she discovered that it was just a bunch of straw and rags. Nothing to be afraid of really. It was an illusion. Her fear was an illusion. Like most things you're afraid of – they seem really big and scary, but when you face them, when you take a closer look…they're not as bad as you thought. Fear's a scarecrow."

She sighed. "I have to see him," she repeated, firmly.

Crane gazed at her. "I love you," he whispered.

Harley looked up at him, shocked. "What?" she murmured.

"I…love you," he stammered. "I have for the longest time, but I was afraid to tell you. And maybe this isn't the appropriate time or the place, but I don't care. You're right, you have to face your fears. And now that I've said it, it doesn't seem so scary after all. I love you, Harley."

"Oh…Johnny," stammered Harley, stunned. "Johnny, I had no idea. I'm…really, really flattered, but…I think…I'm in love with someone else."

"Who?" asked Crane. Harley looked down. "It's Mr. Dent, isn't it?" murmured Crane as Harley opened her mouth to respond.

"It's…yeah, that's right," lied Harley. Well, it was better than telling him the truth, she reasoned. "How did you…know?"

Crane smiled without humor. "The story of my life, my dear, has been losing opportunities to men who are more attractive and more charismatic than I am. Mr. Dent is the most attractive and charismatic man I have ever seen. I don't expect my story to suddenly change now."

He stood up. "I wish you two every possible happiness," he said. "Though I shouldn't…cross Mr. Dent's girlfriend, if I were you. She seems like a ruthless woman."

"Johnny, wait…" began Harley.

"No, my dear, it's best if I go," interrupted Crane. "I have to be alone. That's the story of my life if anything is."

"Johnny, for what it's worth, you're my best friend," said Harley, seizing his arm. "And I…trust you. More than I could ever trust…the man I love. I…dunno if love's a good thing, Johnny, I dunno if my love for him is a good thing, but…I know what we got is a good thing. And I would never wanna lose it. I think, in some crazy way, the kinda love I want and the kinda love I need…hurts. I think…there's something wrong in my brain, where I need pain to feel happy and fulfilled. I know it sounds crazy – I think I _am _crazy, like I said. But even a crazy person needs a friend."

Crane smiled sadly. "Perhaps we are two of a kind, then, my dear," he murmured. "Perhaps I can be happy in my love, although it will only cause me pain. Perhaps just loving someone is enough, unrequited though it may be. Perhaps there is still value in that."

"I know there is," murmured Harley. "Thank you for being there for me, Johnny."

She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. He pulled her close and held her gently against him. "If I can be of any help in any way…you must let me know," he murmured.

Harley nodded slowly. "Yeah…there is one thing you could do for me, Johnny," she whispered. "Wait here a second."

She hurried into her bedroom, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote the following:

_Mr. J,_

_I didn't know pain would do that to me. I did want you, as much as you wanted me. I didn't mean for this to happen. They've taken me off your case. But don't give up. Whatever happens, I won't let them murder you. I'll find a way to save you, I promise. _

_Love,_

_The Kid_

She reread the note, and then circled the word _Love_, and drew an arrow to it with the words: _That's not a joke. I think I'm in love with you. Hope that makes you smile, the way I do when I'm thinking about you._

Harley folded the note and shoved it into an envelope, sealing it. Then she went back into the living room and handed it to Crane. "Can you deliver that to Mr. Napier?" she asked. "Just some things I…needed to say to him."

"Of course, Harley," said Crane, pocketing it.


	9. Chapter 9

"Napier, you got a visitor," said the prison guard, opening the door to his cell.

"Ain't interested," retorted Jack, flipping through the magazine he was reading. He looked up. "Dame? Pretty? Blonde hair, big, blue eyes?"

"No," said the guard.

"Ain't interested," repeated Jack.

"Why do you think any pretty dame would wanna see a scumbag like you?" asked the guard.

Jack shrugged. "A guy can dream," he said.

"Yeah. I dream about Selina Kyle in a catsuit. Wouldn't that be sweet?" said the guard.

Jack shrugged. "She ain't really my type," he replied.

"What, are you kidding me? Selina Kyle in a catsuit! Hell, any dame in a catsuit is _my _type," said the guard.

Jack laughed. "And they say romance is dead," he chuckled.

"Well, I admit, I probably don't know as much about romance as a guy who tried to rape his shrink," said the guard, shrugging.

"Ah. That's been passed around," said Jack, flipping a page in his magazine.

"She was your type, I take it," said the guard. "You like 'em brainy and chatty, huh?"

Jack grinned. "I like a pretty, sympathetic dame who understands me," he murmured. "So yeah, she was my type."

"Probably not so sympathetic now," retorted the guard.

Jack shrugged again. "Well, it's hard to tell with women, isn't it?"

The guard laughed. "You saying she wanted to be raped?"

"I'm saying it wasn't rape," muttered Jack.

The guard laughed again. "You're telling me a classy broad like that, smart, cultured, refined, wanted a creep like you? I guess you really are crazy."

"Would you be willing to testify to that in court?" asked Jack, grinning. "It would really help me out."

"All right, wise guy, let's go," said the guard, hauling him to his feet.

Jack had never seen his visitor before in his life. But judging by the utter loathing in the man's eyes, Jack was willing to bet he'd done something to hurt him, or someone close to him. It was hardly an uncommon occurrence.

"Hi, buddy, what can I do you for?" asked Jack, sitting down. "We ain't met, have we?"

"No," murmured his visitor. "But I'm here on behalf of a mutual acquaintance of ours. A Miss Harleen Quinzel."

Jack was immediately concerned. "You seen her?" he asked, leaning forward. "Is she ok?"

"You attack a woman and then are concerned for her welfare," murmured his visitor. "Perhaps you are insane, as she believes."

He slid a sealed envelope over to him. "That's from her."

Jack took the envelope, holding it up to the light and studying it. He couldn't make out any writing. He checked the seal on the envelope. "You ain't read this," he said.

"Of course I've not read it!" snapped the visitor. "She told me to give it to you! Reading a message addressed to someone else is a crime, and unlike some people in this room, I'm not a criminal!"

"All right, pal, no need to get on your high horse," snapped Jack. "How do you know Harley, anyway?"

"I'm her psychology professor," retorted the visitor. "Professor Jonathan Crane."

"Can I call you Johnny?" asked Jack.

"No," retorted Crane. "You may call me Professor Crane."

"Ok, Professor Crane, can you give Harley a message for me?" asked Jack.

"I sincerely doubt she can have any interest in anything you have to say," retorted Crane.

"Why not? I was her patient!" snapped Jack.

"You are also the man who tried to sexually assault her!" shouted Crane.

"It wasn't like that!" snapped Jack. "I would never force her into anything she didn't want to do! I would never lay a finger on her if she didn't want me to! She means more to me than you can possibly imagine!"

Crane stared at him. "You're…in love with her," he murmured.

"Yeah. Don't look so shocked," retorted Jack. "You think a guy like me can't have feelings?"

"No," retorted Crane. "I don't honestly see how you can. To murder people, to ruin people's lives the way you do…"

"Yeah, people!" snapped Jack. "Who the hell cares about people? People don't matter. If they did, the entire world would break down every time they switched on the news! Wars, disasters, people dying all the goddamn time! You can't care about people – you'll go crazy. And it ain't worth it. All my life I've been around people, and they're cruel and selfish and heartless, and they sure as hell don't care about you. So why waste time caring about them? But you can care about one person. You can stop wasting your time caring about other people and instead channel all your passion, all your love, everything you care about into the one person who deserves all that. That one person who…loves you too."

"You think Harley is in love with you?" murmured Crane. "You? A criminal? A murderer? You think a perfect girl like that could possibly have any interest in a man like you?"

Jack didn't respond. Crane smiled. "Harley is right. You _are _crazy," he said, standing up. "But I'll debunk you of your delusion right now. Harley's not in love with you. She's in love with Harvey Dent."

"How do you know?" demanded Jack.

"She told me," he retorted. "You aren't the only man who finds her an utterly incredible woman. And you're not the only man who's going to have to suffer an incredible disappointment. Good day, Mr. Napier."

Crane turned to go. "If you see her again, tell her that no matter what happens to me…it wasn't her fault," said Jack. "She shouldn't blame herself for…whatever happens to me."

Crane nodded and left. Jack looked down at the still sealed envelope, wondering what Harley had written. Was it her telling him goodbye? Was it her telling him she hated him? Was it her telling him she was in love with Harvey Dent? Jack couldn't blame her – the man was young, handsome, charismatic, well-educated, well off, not like…

"_A criminal? A murderer? You think a perfect girl like that could possibly have any interest in a man like you?"_

Crane's words and utterly contemptible tone rang in Jack's ears. He stuffed the envelope into his pocket without looking at it as he was returned to his cell. He picked up his magazine again, but couldn't focus on the words. He was heartbroken, angry, and full of self-hatred all at the same time. _A man like you_. Yes, Harley deserved better. He wasn't a catch by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe the electric chair would be the best option for everyone. Harley could forget about him, and he wouldn't have to live to see Harley on the arm of the man who had sent him to the electric chair. He saw visions of them together now, cuddling, kissing, moaning his name in pleasure as he thrust on top of her, "Oh, Harvey! Harvey!"

He shut his eyes as he tried to erase the image of the two of them. It would save a lotta pain if he just stopped fighting and died. A lotta pain for everyone.

Jack had never held his life in high esteem. He fought for it because that's what you did – it was instinct. And because some small part of him had always believed there was something worth fighting for. If a kid like Harley, a sweet, innocent girl like that had seen something in him once, that gave him hope. Remembering her smiling face as she cuddled her teddy bear made him happy. It made him think maybe his life was valuable. He knew that was a lie now. Harley had grown up into a woman, just like any other woman. She was in love with a man any woman would be in love with. And she saw Jack as scum, just like any woman would. She wasn't special. And neither was he.

He gave monosyllabic responses to Dr. Leland at their session later. He sat on the couch, staring at the wall, and trying to forget Harley. He had thought when he had kissed her that she had returned it…that she had wanted him…he must have been mistaken.

"Mr. Napier, did you understand the question?" asked Dr. Leland, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Jack sighed. "Can we stop with the questions, Doc?" he muttered. "I ain't crazy. You know it, and I know it."

"Well…I'm glad you can admit it," said Dr. Leland. "But something's bothering you. Why don't you tell me what it is?"

Jack shrugged. "I'm depressed, I guess."

"Any particular reason for it?" asked Dr. Leland.

Jack smiled grimly. "I'm a man who's committed a lotta crimes, Doc, and I'm heading to court with the threat of the electric chair looming over me. Wouldn't you say that's reason enough to be depressed?"

"Yes, but those have been your circumstances since your arrest," said Dr. Leland. "What's changed now to make you depressed?"

Jack was silent. "Harley," he murmured. "I feel…bad for what I did."

"You feel guilt?" asked Dr. Leland.

"Yeah, bad, like I said," replied Jack, nodding. "If you see her, can you tell her I'm sorry? For everything. Tell her…she always has been, and always will be…the one."

"The one what?" asked Dr. Leland, puzzled.

Jack shut his eyes. "There's always one, Doc," he muttered. "Y'know, one diamond in the shop window that you just gotta have. The one that makes all the others just look cheap. The one that sparkles brighter than the other ones, the one that just speaks to you. The one you gotta have even if you gotta do something bad to get it, like steal it or kill someone. People are like diamonds. They're hard and cold, and only worth what other people will pay for them. Except one, that one that you gotta keep because it's worth more than money. And Harley's that one. You tell her that. She'll understand."

Dr. Leland nodded slowly, standing up. "I hope your trial goes well, Mr. Napier," she murmured.

"You and me both, Doc!" chuckled Jack as he was led away.

…

Jack woke up early the morning of his trial. He wasted no time in removing his jumpsuit. He stood up on his bed and began tying the fabric into a knot on the ceiling, with a noose at one end.

It was better this way, he thought. Quicker than the electric chair, much quicker than a mob killing. And at least he got to pull the switch, as it were.

He checked the knot would hold, pulling taunt on the fabric, and something suddenly fell out of the pocket. It was Harley's note.

Jack bent down and picked it up. He might as well read her final words to him, he reasoned. He opened the envelope and read the message.

"Oh…my God," he stammered. He reread it, and a slow smile spread over his face. "She…loves me."

He laughed. "Well, better get dressed in my Sunday best," he chuckled, grabbing his jumpsuit down and pulling it back on. "I got a date with Dame Justice. And she may be a hard bitch, but I got a sweet, little angel rooting for me. I can't lose! How lucky can a guy get?"

"Let's go, Napier," said the guard, appearing at his cell and unlocking the door.

Jack nodded, as he was led out of the prison, into the van, and into the courthouse. He didn't ever stop smiling.


	10. Chapter 10

"In closing, your honor, I'd just like to say that this man, the man seated right in front of you, is the reason people can't sleep safely in their beds in this city. He's the reason people are afraid to leave their homes after dark. He's the reason children can't play in the park on their own. He's the reason women have to carry personal alarms. He's the reason every alley, every parking garage, and every public space in this city has to be avoided after nightfall. He is a cog in the machine that is organized crime in Gotham. You remove the cog, and you stop the machine. So I'm asking you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to remove this cog permanently. Stop the machine. Make Gotham a safer place. Thank you."

Harvey Dent took a seat to rapturous applause from the gallery. "Order! Order in the court!" shouted the judge, banging his gavel. Dent looked up to see Pamela Isley beaming down at him, and he smiled back.

"Harvey's got this in the bag," murmured Isley, leaning over to Harley, who was seated next to her. Harley's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. The mood of the court since the trial had begun weeks ago had been dead set against Jack, and completely in favor of Dent. Harley studied the faces of the jury, all gazing admiringly at the DA. Probably in his pocket, thought Harley. Her eyes slid across the room to where Jack sat. Surprisingly for a man in his position, he didn't seem sad or despondent. And Harley knew why. When he got bored during the trial, he would glance at a folded piece of paper, and start smiling. He hadn't stopped smiling since the trial had begun. And he turned now, to gaze up into the gallery and smile at Harley.

She smiled back, giving him a small wave. Isley noticed, but said nothing, returning her attention to Jack's lawyer, who was standing up to make his closing statement.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client is not, as Mr. Dent has led to you believe, a cog in some great machine. He's not a symbol for all that's wrong in Gotham, and shouldn't have to bear the responsibility for the actions of every gangster in this city. He's a human being. And he's a mentally unstable one. He needs help, not persecution. If you condemn him to death, you are condemning a man who never had a chance to truly live, as you or I understand it. We live in a society which promises to take care of its vulnerable citizens. That includes those who are not mentally sound. I hope you will do the right thing and not persecute a man who has no control over his own actions, let alone the actions of every gang in Gotham. Mr. Dent seeks to make my client into a scapegoat. Please don't give him that satisfaction. Thank you."

Harley burst into applause. She was the only one. All eyes in the courtroom focused on her, but she just gazed back at Jack, smiling at him.

"The jury will now adjourn to consider their verdict," said the judge. The jury members stood up and filed out, as did the lawyers and spectators. Harley followed Isley out into the hall, where Dent stood talking with some admirers.

"Well, despite the sob story there, I think we're in the clear," he was saying, beaming. "How do you think it went, Pammie?" he asked, as Isley embraced him, kissing him.

"They'd have to be crazy not to be on your side, baby," murmured Isley, grinning. "Got you a present, before I forget," she said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a silver coin, handing it to him.

Dent laughed. "Last night, we were discussing the odds of Napier getting off. I said his fate was as predictable as the flip of a double-sided coin. So let's ask it!" he chuckled. "Heads, Napier goes down."

He flipped the coin. "Well, what do you know? Heads!" he chuckled.

Everyone laughed, except Harley, whose eyes narrowed in anger. "Excuse me," she muttered, heading for the bathroom.

She went over to the sink, splashing water on her face. Her heart was pounding in fear and fury, but she tried to remain calm. "Fear's a scarecrow," she murmured. "Fear's a scarecrow."

But the fear kept talking at her, questioning her, asking her what she would do if Jack was sentenced to death. She couldn't let him die. But she didn't have an answer to that question.

The door opened at that moment and Isley entered. She went over to the mirror, putting down her bag and beginning to fix her makeup. "Wanna look good for the photographers," she explained, smiling at Harley. "Y'know, for Harvey's victory."

Harley ignored her, looking at her own reflection. She looked pale and worried, and she was worried, worried sick. Her face still had some remaining bruises from where Jack had hit her, and she reached into her bag for her own makeup, trying to cover them.

"We're sending him down, you know," murmured Isley, applying her lipstick slowly. "We're sending your boyfriend down."

"He's not my boyfriend," retorted Harley, coldly.

"No?" asked Isley, cocking her head. "You certainly seem very interested in his welfare. And I can see you flirting from across the courtroom. If I didn't know better, I would have thought there was some kind of hanky panky going on between you two during your sessions."

"I…set off the alarm when he tried to…assault me," hissed Harley.

"Yeah, maybe he wanted to try some kinda new position you weren't comfortable with," retorted Isley. "And maybe he was just ignoring the safety word. Why else would you have any interest in what happens to a creep like him?"

"He's not a creep," snapped Harley.

Isley grinned. "Like I said, we're sending your boyfriend down," she murmured, replacing the lipstick in her purse.

"If he was my boyfriend, he'd be a hell of a lot better one than yours!" hissed Harley, whirling around to face her. "Talk about creeps! At the party at Wayne Manor, he kissed me! He offered to sleep with me in exchange for declaring Jack sane!"

Isley stared at her, stunned. "This case obviously means much more to him than you do," continued Harley, shoving her makeup back into her purse. "I would never date a man who would put anyone or anything before me! Call me crazy, but I just believe that love should be about respect! And Harvey Dent doesn't respect you! He's two-faced, Pam! You need to wise up and realize that before you get hurt!"

Harley stormed out of the bathroom to see everyone rushing back into the courtroom. She hurried back herself, just in time to see the jury take their seats.

"Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?" asked the judge.

"We have, your honor," said the head juror, nodding. "We find the defendant guilty of all charges."

The judge nodded. "In light of the verdict, and your numerous and heinous crimes against society, Mr. Napier, I have no choice but to pass upon you the severest sentence this court allows," he said, turning to Jack. "Death by electrocution."

A cheer rose up from the courtroom as almost every spectator applauded. But Harley didn't applaud. She sat, stock still and terrified, in her seat, looking at Jack with tears rising in her eyes. The judge tried to get the courtroom under control and said a few more words, but Harley didn't hear them. She stared at Jack as he was dragged away by the guards. He looked up at Harley, who blew him a kiss, and he smiled. He laughed as he was dragged out of the court. Harley followed him, keeping her eyes on him for as long as possible, until the doors to the police van slammed shut. She watched it drive off, still furious and afraid, but firm in her resolution.

"I'm going to save you," she murmured. "However it takes."


	11. Chapter 11

Harley sat in the car in the parking lot, breathing heavily and trying to stop the involuntary shaking in her body. She had practiced her innocent face in front of the mirror a thousand times. She just had to calm down and have confidence she wouldn't get caught. Jack's life depended on it.

With that thought, Harley took a deep breath and opened the car door. She headed toward the doors to the prison, her heart hammering in her chest.

"I'm here to see Mr. Napier," she said at the front desk.

The guard on duty nodded. "If you'll follow me this way to the visiting room, ma'am," he said. "Through the metal detector, please."

Harley obeyed. The detector beeped. "Oh, sorry!" she laughed. "Do you know what it is? These stupid shoes," she said, bending down and removing her shoes. "They've got metal heels. They always set off these things at the airport."

She handed the shoes to the guard, who moved them through the metal detector. It beeped again. He nodded.

"That's fine, ma'am," he said, handing her back her shoes. "If you'll just step right this way."

Harley followed him into a small room, which contained a table with a sheet of glass across it. A door at the far end separated the room from the cell block, and the guard disappeared into this, returning a moment later dragging Jack Napier behind him.

He beamed when he saw her. "Kid, what a pleasant surprise!"

"You got five minutes," said the guard, disappearing back the way he had come and shutting the door behind him.

Harley took a deep breath. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Pretty great now that I can see your face," he replied. "How are you holding up?"

"Oh…uh…I've been better," said Harley, with a small smile. She looked down at her hands. "I'm terrified," she whispered.

"Hey, I'm the one who's getting the chair!" chuckled Jack. "I'm the one who should be terrified!"

"How can you be so calm about it?" asked Harley, looking up at him. "Don't you care that you're going to die?"

He shook his head. "Nah, not really. I mean, I care that you're gonna be pretty upset, of course…"

"Pretty upset?" repeated Harley. "You trying to be funny, Mr. J?"

"I'm just trying to tell you that it don't matter to me," he murmured. "I mean…you love me. That's more than I ever hoped to get outta life, the love of a gal like you. I can die a happy man now, don't you see?"

"Wouldn't you rather live?" murmured Harley. "With me?"

Jack grinned. "Of course I would, baby," he murmured. "But I ain't the kinda guy who's ever expected miracles. You just gotta make the best outta a bad situation, if you can. Smile. Be happy. That's what I want you to do after I'm gone."

"I'll never be happy again with you gone," murmured Harley.

"Look, I'm sure a gal like you can find another guy," murmured Jack. "A better guy than me, y'know…"

"I don't want another guy!" shouted Harley, furiously. "I want you, Mr. J! There…there ain't a better guy than you! Not for me!"

She began crying. "No, kid, please stop," murmured Jack. "Please…you know I can't stand that."

Harley wiped her eyes. "I ain't letting you die, Mr. J," she murmured. "I'm gonna save you."

"How?" he asked.

"Just trust me," she whispered.

She pressed the button to call the guard. He entered a moment later. "Look, seeing how Mr. Napier's gonna die soon, I was wondering if he could have a last request," said Harley.

"What is it?" asked the guard.

"He wants to kiss me," replied Harley. "Can he do that?"

The guard was silent. "If it's all right with you, ma'am…" he began.

"Yes, it is," interrupted Harley.

The guard nodded, unlocking the door and pulling Jack into the visiting room. "Make it quick," he snapped.

"Hey, it's my last kiss!" snapped Jack. "Lemme enjoy it, would ya?"

He looked down at Harley, who was gazing up at him with teary eyes. He tilted her chin up. "I love you, kiddo," he murmured.

"I love you too, Mr. J," she whispered, shutting her eyes as he brought his mouth down and kissed her.

Harley gently manipulated his hands as she returned the kiss, sliding one down her back and onto her bottom. The other she pulled down to her chest, encouraging him to fondle her breasts. Jack suddenly realized that she wasn't just doing this for gratification as he felt the outline of a strange, firm shape through her clothing. Two strange, firm shapes, which he traced with his hands. He opened his eyes as she drew away, and she gazed back at him.

Then he seized her again, mauling her wildly as he alternated between grasping the objects concealed in her clothing, and her beautiful flesh, excited beyond reason not just at her incredible body, but by her incredible mind, which had thought of this, which was doing this for him, risking everything…

"Hey now, that's enough," said the guard, firmly, as things escalated between them to the point where it was uncomfortable for him to watch. "It was a last kiss, not anything funny…"

But he choked suddenly as a bullet embedded itself in his brain. Jack had reached under Harley's skirt and pulled out the gun concealed there. It was now smoking in his hand as he returned his attention to Harley, kissing her ardently.

"We don't have time for this now!" gasped Harley, drawing away reluctantly as she pulled the other gun out of her bra. "Hurry! They'll have heard the shot!"

She grabbed Jack's hand and rushed out of the door. Harley's heart was racing in fear and excitement as their feet pounded down the corridor.

"Freeze!" shouted a guard, stepping in front of them. Harley aimed the gun, taking a deep breath and trying to pull the trigger…

But she couldn't do it. She heard another shot and the guard fell to the ground as Jack discharged another bullet into his skull. "Lemme have the other gun too," he said. "If you ain't killed a guy before, you ain't gonna start now…"

He was cut off as another guard shot at him from behind. Jack turned to fire at him, but Harley beat him to it, firing a bullet squarely between the man's eyes.

Jack turned to her, impressed. "Kid, you're a natural!" he exclaimed.

"Easy when they're trying to hurt you," murmured Harley, grabbing his hand again and rushing toward the exit.

Jack fired behind them as they raced out the door, emptying his gun. They reached Harley's car and leapt inside, and Harley sped out into the streets of Gotham.

"Are they following us?" she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

"It's only a matter of time," muttered Jack, glancing behind him. "Where are we headed?"

"I…dunno," stammered Harley. "I didn't plan that far ahead. I thought you might have like a hideout or something…"

"Yeah, turn left up here," said Jack. "I got a great joint in mind. Head up a couple more blocks and then ditch the car."

"What?" asked Harley.

"They'll be tracking the car – we need to ditch it," he repeated. "We can get to the hideout on foot. It ain't that far."

"But I…got all my stuff," stammered Harley.

Jack glanced in the back and laughed. "Thought we'd have time for a big move, did you?" he chuckled. "Geez, kid, it's like you never broke a guy outta jail before."

Harley stopped the car a few minutes later. "Just grab the essentials," said Jack. "Leave the rest."

"Hang on," said Harley, opening a box. She rummaged through it for a second, and then pulled out a ragged teddy bear, which she shoved into her bag. "Let's go."

About half an hour later, Jack pushed open the door to a dingy, abandoned shop. Dust and cobwebs were strewn everywhere, and Harley looked around apprehensively.

Jack noticed her look and laughed. "Well, what were you expecting, kid, the Ritz?" he chuckled. "C'mere, it gets better, I promise you."

He took her hand and led her across the room to the staircase at the back of the shop. "This used to be a joke shop," he said, nodding at the gag memorabilia strewn about – rubber chickens, whoopie cushions, playing cards, clown masks, itching powder, stink bombs, joy buzzers, cherry bombs. "When I was a kid, I used to steal money from my old man and spend it here. Used to put itching powder in his sock drawer. Think he just figured it was fleas or something."

The room above the shop was, to Harley's relief, much better. There was a skylight to let in sunshine, and it dappled the room golden. There was a mattress on the floor, next to some empty bottles and cigarette butts.

"Still ain't really no place for a lady, but at least it's clean," said Jack.

"Yeah," said Harley, putting down her bag. "Just needs a few homey touches."

She pulled out the teddy bear. "Recognize him?" she asked, grinning.

"Course I do," said Jack, smiling. "I'm real glad you kept him all these years. It's always nice to see a friendly face."

Harley smiled. "I'll never forget the sweet, innocent, little girl who made me apologize to her teddy bear," continued Jack. He studied her. "But you're still a sweet, innocent, little girl, ain't ya, Harley?" he murmured.

"Ain't so innocent," she retorted. "I just busted you outta jail."

The realization hit her, and she turned away. "You regret it?" he asked, quietly.

"Nah," she said. "It's just a big, sudden change, y'know. And it's kinda scary."

She turned to smiled at him. "But as long as you're here with me, there's no place on earth I'd rather be, Mr. J," she murmured, embracing him.

He kissed her gently, but the passion increased quickly on both sides. "Y'know, I still owe you one, Harley," he whispered, in between kisses. "You want me to give it to you now?"

"Yeah, Mr. J," she gasped. "I really do."

He pressed her down on the mattress. Harley tossed Mr. Bear into a corner, pulling Jack down into her arms.


	12. Chapter 12

"You know, smoking is bad for you," murmured Harley, leaning lovingly against Jack's naked chest as he sat up in bed, lazily puffing on a cigarette.

He chuckled. "I think _I'm _pretty bad for you, kid, but I don't hear you objecting to me," he murmured, kissing her tenderly. "Anyway, there ain't nothing like a post-coital smoke."

"Lemme try," said Harley, taking the cigarette from him. She put it to her lips and inhaled deeply, and then launched into a fit of coughing. Jack laughed as she downed a glass of water.

"That ain't very nice, Mr. J!" she gasped.

"Yeah, smoking ain't for good little girls like you," he murmured, stroking her hair. "Only for bad men like me."

"Mmm, my bad man," she murmured, kissing him. "Y'know, when Harvey Dent tried to bribe me into declaring you sane, he asked me what I wanted. And the only thing I could think of was you."

"You nuts?" he murmured, grinning. "You could have had anything in the world, and you picked me?"

"Yeah. Guess I _am_ nuts, huh, Mr. J?" she whispered, kissing him again.

"Or you got no imagination," said Jack, smiling. "Though after that performance you just gave, I know that ain't the case now, you naughty little minx." He kissed her. "Guess I'm the luckiest guy in the world," he murmured. "It's not every dame who would do what you did for a guy. Risking everything, giving up everything for him…"

"You're the only thing that matters, Mr. J," she interrupted. "Nothing in my life would be worthwhile if you were gone. I couldn't go back to the way things were before. I know now what it is to matter to someone like that, to be loved the way you love me, and to feel the kinda love that I feel for you. I don't think I could live without it."

"I know I couldn't, kiddo," he murmured, inhaling from his cigarette. He exhaled slowly. "Before I got your note…I was gonna kill myself."

"Why?" asked Harley, shocked.

"Because the guy who delivered it told me you were in love with Harvey Dent," he murmured. "And if that had been true, I wouldn't have wanted to live to see you together."

Harley looked down. "I…wanted to spare his feelings," she murmured. "Johnny…told me he was in love with me. And I had to let him down easy. And I don't think it would have been easy for him to accept that I was in love with…a guy like you."

"A criminal," murmured Jack, nodding. "A murderer."

He exhaled his cigarette again. "Guess he's gonna have to accept it now," he murmured. "Guess everyone will, when they find out."

"Yeah," agreed Harley. "I'm trying not to think about how much I've disappointed everyone. Johnny, my parents…but it doesn't matter, y'know. Because I ain't disappointed myself. I'm happy. I'm happy beyond reason with you, Mr. J," she whispered, kissing him.

Jack put the cigarette out, pushing her down on the bed again. Harley squealed in delight, clasping him tightly against her. He laughed. "Gee, kid, talk about excited! It's like you ain't ever had sex before!" he chuckled.

She looked up at him shyly, and the realization hit him. "Oh…God," he stammered, drawing away suddenly. "You ain't…ever had sex before now?"

Harley shook her head slowly. "I know, it's pathetic," she replied. "But I was really shy in high school…didn't have any relationships or anything. I was more concerned with focusing on my studies than dating. I knew if I didn't get good grades, I wouldn't get a scholarship, so I became kinda obsessive. And nothing's changed since I've been in college."

"Jesus Christ…I mean, I thought you were a little tight and all…" Jack stammered, sitting up and lighting another cigarette, smoking it nervously. "If I had known that…I would've been a little more gentle with you, kid," he muttered.

"Mmm, I liked it the way it was," she murmured, grinning.

He looked at her. "I didn't…hurt you, did I?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I liked it the way it was," she repeated. "I liked it rough. The pain was…nice. You know what that kinda thing does to me, Mr. J."

He nodded, but still looked nervous. "It's not a big deal, is it?" asked Harley, concerned.

"Nah, I just never…uh…had a gal who was a…virgin," he stammered. He studied her. "Can't believe my luck, really, that I was the first guy to…y'know."

He puffed on his cigarette. "It's crazy, y'know?" he said, gazing at her. "You should've dated a lotta young, attractive guys before me…you should be with one now…I mean…what the hell are you doing with me, kid?"

"I love you," she murmured. "And to tell you the truth, I ain't ever…thought of myself as…pretty."

He stared at her. "What did you say?" he whispered.

"I ain't ever…thought of myself as pretty," repeated Harley. "I wasn't very popular in school, and the glasses certainly didn't make me more attractive. I was kinda nerdy, and girls like that…ain't pretty."

"You think you ain't pretty?" he repeated. "Are you crazy? Kid, you're a knockout! You're the most gorgeous gal I've ever seen!"

Harley grinned. "I'm glad you think that," she murmured. "But, y'know, you never quite get over a lotta your childhood insecurities. And I was made fun of a lot, as a kid. For the glasses, and my background, and…my name."

"What about your name?" asked Jack.

"Harley Quinzel," she said. "Other kids used to call me the clown girl. Harley Quinn. Y'know, like harlequin. Get it?"

Jack chuckled. "I like it," he said, puffing on his cigarette. "My little clown girl. I like it a lot."

"Yeah?" asked Harley. "Well…I don't mind it so much if you like it."

He put out his cigarette again, cupping her face in his hands. "My beautiful clown girl," he whispered, kissing her and pressing her down on the bed again. "My beautiful Harley Quinn. I'm so glad you're crazy enough to be mine."


	13. Chapter 13

"What do you mean he's escaped?!" shouted Harvey Dent down the phone. "How?! An accomplice?! Who?! I want a name! Well, find me one! Couldn't you have stopped…an oversight?! What does the public pay your salary for, I'd like to know?! Do you have any clue as to where he's gone?! Any at all?! Why am I not surprised?! I want him found, do you understand me?! I want every available man you've got combing Gotham for him, Commissioner! And I don't want them to rest until he's caught and dragged back to jail, do I make myself clear?! Good!"

He slammed the phone down, reaching for a cigar. His hands shook in fury as he lit it. He shoved his hands into his pockets to steady them, and found the coin Isley had given him. He flipped it nervously, glaring around at the shadows in his office and thinking. A knock came on his door, and a second later, his secretary entered.

"Heard you shouting, Harvey. Are you ok?" she asked, coming over to him.

"Yeah," growled Dent, inhaling from his cigar. "Just surrounded by idiots!"

He slammed his fist against his desk suddenly. "You're tense," murmured his secretary, coming over to massage his shoulders. "Relax, Harvey. You can control this."

"I can't control anything if morons keep failing me, Grace!" growled Dent. "I can't get this city under control if I'm the only one fighting for its benefit!"

He was still flipping the coin nervously. Grace slid her hand into his, bending down to whisper in his ear, "I think you just need to release a little tension, Harvey. The usual place? Twenty minutes?"

"Yeah, sounds good," growled Dent. "Now beat it. I don't wanna be around you when I'm angry like this. Never learned how to control my temper."

"Who says I want you to?" murmured Grace, grinning. She kissed him. "See you in twenty minutes, big boy."

Dent resumed flipping his coin as she left the room, taking another deep puff on his cigar. There was another knock on his door, and suddenly Pamela Isley entered.

"Harvey? We need to talk," she murmured.

"Not a good time, Pammie," he growled.

"We need to talk," repeated Isley, firmly. "Right now."

Dent exhaled his cigar, sighing in annoyance. "Make it quick," he snapped. "I've just got news Jack Napier's escaped from prison, thanks to an accomplice. Some dame who visited him and managed to smuggle weapons in under her skirt. Why do we even bother having metal detectors if they don't catch this stuff?! And what the hell do we pay security for if they can't even pat down a woman properly?!"

"Harley Quinzel," murmured Isley. "I'll bet you anything it was Harley Quinzel."

"The shrink?" demanded Dent, looking up at her. "Why the hell would she bust the guy out when he attacked her?"

"Because she's in love with him," murmured Isley. "I saw her a lot at the trial, Harvey. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes when she gazed at him."

Dent snorted. "Women," he muttered. "Completely nuts, I tell ya."

He puffed on his cigar. Isley just stared at him. "Do you…uh…think she's pretty?" she asked, slowly.

"Who?"

"Harley Quinzel."

Dent shrugged. "Yeah, she's attractive, I guess."

"Did you ever…kiss her?" asked Isley, softly. "Or offer to sleep with her, maybe?"

Dent looked at her. "Who told you that?" he muttered.

"She did," replied Isley, gazing into his eyes. "Is it true?"

Dent snorted. "You believe a word that psycho bitch says?" he asked. "You don't think she might be trying to turn you against me? C'mon, baby, you're smarter than that."

"I just…know how obsessive you get over your work sometimes, Harvey," whispered Isley. "Maybe if you thought that if you seduced her, she would help you out, help you win the case…"

"I won the case without her goddamn help!" snarled Dent. "That was me, Pammie! Me! All me! The District Attorney of Gotham City!"

"And who helped make you the District Attorney of Gotham City?" demanded Isley. "All my hard work, all my support, all my hours helping you run the campaign, don't you think you owe me a little gratitude for that?"

"You know I'm grateful, Pammie," murmured Dent, embracing her and kissing her. "I'm just a little…stressed out at the moment. This Napier escape is really…bad for me. Bad publicity, you know."

"Yeah, I know," murmured Isley. "You're always concerned about publicity, Harvey. I sometimes wonder if that's the only reason you're with me."

"Baby, why are you acting like this?" demanded Dent. "You know I love you…"

"Do I?" interrupted Isley. "Because frankly I don't see any reason why Harley would have lied about you kissing her. She doesn't have anything to gain from ruining our relationship…"

"She wants revenge on me for sending down her boyfriend!" shouted Dent. "So she wants to destroy what I value most!"

"And is that our relationship?" demanded Isley. "Because it doesn't seem like it, Harvey. You've been staying late at the office…"

"I've been trying to win the Napier case!" shouted Dent. "I've been trying to permanently remove a dangerous and heartless criminal from society! But thanks to crazy Harley Quinzel, that maniac is back out on the streets, and all my hard work is wasted!"

He seized his desk suddenly, shoving it over with a crash and sending books and papers flying everywhere. "That dumb bitch!" he shouted. "And that's the person you're gonna trust, Pammie, over your own goddamn boyfriend?!" he yelled, rounding on her.

"Don't you talk to me in that tone," murmured Isley, softly.

"I'll talk to you how I wanna!" shouted Dent. "If you're stupid enough to believe the lying whore! God dammit, Pammie, the last thing I need right now is you nagging me with stupid questions! I need your goddamn support, not a lotta false accusations!"

"Why are you getting so worked up about this if it's not true?" whispered Isley.

"Because I don't need this!" he shouted. "I need the people who work under me to be competent and loyal, or I won't ever be able to get anything done! But the police are incompetent, and you're questioning my loyalty…"

"I don't work under you, Harvey," snapped Isley. "I'm your girlfriend. We're partners, in an equal relationship. I'm not some submissive, servile woman who will trust you blindly and do whatever the hell you say. You used to really love and respect that about me, the fact that I was independent…"

"I do, baby," he muttered. "I do. But I wish just once you would do what I say, and trust me, ok?"

Isley nodded slowly. "So there's no one else?" she murmured.

"No one else," he repeated, firmly. "No one but you, baby. I love you, Pammie," he murmured, pulling her into his arms.

The door opened again. "Harvey, they're cleaning the bathroom, so we're gonna have to find another place," said Grace, entering the room. "We can do it on your desk again, but you have to promise not to slam into me as hard as you did last time. I had bruises for weeks…"

She noticed Isley and stopped talking immediately. Isley stared in horror from Grace to Dent. "Harvey, you…" she began.

"Get outta here, Grace," growled Dent.

The secretary hurried from the room. "You're a liar," whispered Isley, turning to face him with tears in her eyes. "You're a filthy liar. You stared into my eyes and…lied."

"Pammie, it's not what you…"

"Don't lie to me again, Harvey!" shouted Isley, furiously. "Is she the only one, or is there someone else?!"

Dent looked at her. "I have had…other women," he admitted, slowly.

"Other women?" repeated Isley, stunned. "How many other women, Harvey? Ten? Twenty? Fifty?"

"Pammie, it's not like that…"

"What is it like then, Harvey?!" shrieked Isley. "I gave up everything to help you, and this is how you repay me?! By having other floozies?!"

"Pammie, please, just listen to me…" began Dent.

"No, I don't wanna hear another lie out of your mouth!" shrieked Isley, stepping away from him. "I can't believe you could do this to me, Harvey! I thought you loved me!"

"I do…"

"If you did, you wouldn't break my heart like this!" sobbed Isley. "But you have, Harvey! It's broken! It's broken forever! I gave it to you, like a precious flower, and you…you…crushed it into the dirt! I hate you, you two-faced bastard! I hate you!"

She struck him hard across the face, and then fled from the room, sobbing. Dent stared after her and then sank slowly back into his chair, lighting another cigar and puffing on it thoughtfully.

"Mr. Dent?" said a voice.

Dent looked up to see a thin man in a suit and fedora standing in the doorway. "I'm sorry for bothering you – this is clearly a bad time," said the man, entering the room. "But I needed to see you, and it's difficult for a man in my position to do that."

"In your position?" repeated Dent. "Who are you?"

The man extended his hand. "The name's Buzz Bronski," he murmured. "I work for Sal Valestra."

"And what could you possibly want with me?" asked Dent, quietly.

Buzz studied him. "May I sit down?" he asked.

Dent nodded, gesturing to a chair. "Smoke?" he asked, offering him a cigar.

"Thank you very much," replied Buzz, nodding and accepting the cigar. "These Cuban?"

"A District Attorney has certain privileges," replied Dent, lighting the cigar for him. "And one of those is no questions asked."

Buzz laughed. "Pretty sweet deal," he said, puffing on the cigar. "That's kinda why I was hoping to see you, Mr. Dent," he continued. "I'm interested in a deal."

"Sal Valestra wants to make a deal with me?" asked Dent, puzzled.

"No," retorted Buzz. "I do."

He inhaled from the cigar. "You recently prosecuted a Mr. Jack Napier, who I've heard has just escaped police custody," said Buzz.

"Yeah," replied Dent. "You know him?"

"Known him a good fifteen years," said Buzz, nodding. "Jack and me started working for Sal at around the same time."

"You're old friends," said Dent.

"No, Mr. Dent, we are not," muttered Buzz. "I can't stand him, actually. And the feeling's mutual. Call it a professional rivalry, I guess, but we've never got along. We just always rubbed each other up the wrong way. When he got arrested, I thought I couldn't have been happier. When he got sentenced to the chair, I was. And now that he's free again, I'm pretty mad."

"Join the club," retorted Dent.

Buzz leaned forward. "Knowing Jack as I do, I'm willing to bet he didn't cooperate with you," he murmured. "He's a stubborn, difficult guy. I'm willing to bet he didn't give you any information about the gang."

"No, he didn't," agreed Dent. "Why?"

Buzz exhaled from his cigar. "Because I'm willing to give you that information, Mr. Dent," murmured Buzz. "I'm willing to tell you all about the Valestra gang."

"Why?" asked Dent.

"Simple," retorted Buzz. "So that you start leaning on Sal. So that he thinks Jack squealed. So that when Jack comes back to work for him, he gets a bullet between the eyes. Or worse."

"That's all you want?" asked Dent, puffing on his cigar. "Napier's death?"

Buzz grinned. "Isn't that all you want, Mr. Dent?" he murmured. "We have a common interest, you see. And not just the one. With the information I give you, you can take down Sal Valestra himself, which leaves me open to take control of the gang."

"And what makes you think I won't take you down with him?" asked Dent.

"That would be very ungrateful of you, Mr. Dent," murmured Buzz. "And any gang I'm in charge of would be willing to cooperate with the District Attorney's office, providing it turns a blind eye to…certain practices. And the rewards for you personally are enormous. You'll get good publicity for toppling the head of the Valestra gang. You'll have Gotham's undying gratitude for bringing down one of the kingpins of organized crime in this city. Jack Napier is small fish by comparison, but he'll end up dead too. There's no way you can lose, Mr. Dent."

Dent puffed on his cigar thoughtfully for a moment. Then he smiled, pulling out his double-sided coin again. "Heads, it's a deal, Mr. Bronski," he murmured, flipping it. He looked up and grinned. "Well, what do you know? Heads."


	14. Chapter 14

Harley awoke to the sound of muffled voices coming from downstairs. She sat up and noticed that the bed was empty. That was unusual. She and Jack had been lying low for weeks now, and he only left the hideout occasionally to steal food. The rest of the time he spent with her, lying next to her, talking to her, holding her. She had woken up every morning to him softly kissing along the curve of her back, so that she was smiling before she even opened her eyes. So why wasn't he here to wake her up now?

Puzzled, she looked around for her clothes and began dressing hurriedly. The voices grew louder and clearer as she came down the stairs – one was Jack's, the other she had never heard before.

She saw Jack talking to a stout man in a suit. He looked up as he saw her and beamed. "Good morning, kiddo!" he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her. "Sweets, I'd like you to meet Chuckie Sol. He works for Sal Valestra. Chuckie, this is my doll, Harleen Quinzel."

Chuckie smiled. "Only you would be lucky enough to get arrested and end up with a hot dame like that!" he said. "Always said Jack Napier's the luckiest guy I know. Even after you got arrested, I said to the guys you'd bust out somehow. And not only did you bust out, you even got quite the consolation prize! Oh…uh…no disrespect, ma'am," he said, nodding at Harley. "I mean, you ain't a prize, you're a woman, so you ain't an object. But you are a prize in that you're…really beautiful. And you ain't a consolation prize – I mean, you're worth going to prison for. That's what I was trying to say. Hope I didn't offend you."

"Uh…no. I don't think a lotta woman are gonna be offended at being told they're really beautiful," said Harley, smiling.

"Chuckie has absolutely no social skills, but you'll learn to love him," said Jack, grinning.

"Boy, I tell ya, we were all watching the trial coverage on TV, and all the guys were rooting for you to get off, but that Dent is one good lawyer," continued Chuckie. "I mean, Buzz was pulling for him, of course, but he was the only one. Sal was mostly just worried about you talking. Buzz wanted to arrange some kinda accident for you in prison, but Sal said it was too risky. I mean, Sal's a good guy, and it's nothing personal, he's just trying to protect his business, y'know."

"Yeah…sure," said Jack, slowly.

Chuckie shuffled his feet nervously. "You ain't…uh…talked, huh, Jack?"

"Course I didn't, Chuckie, you know I ain't no squealer," snapped Jack.

"No," agreed Chuckie. "No, you ain't. Only…somebody has."

"Somebody has what?" demanded Jack.

"Squealed, snitched, talked, whatever you wanna call it," muttered Chuckie. "Sal's got the law breathing down his neck. Cops have foiled the past two operations. They're on to him, Jack, and he's understandably pretty upset. He's…blaming you. Thinks you must have tried to cut a deal with the DA's office to avoid the chair."

"But…I ain't," stammered Jack, stunned. "You know I ain't, Chuckie, you know I wouldn't do something like that…"

"I do know that, Jack," agreed Chuckie, nodding. "But Sal don't. He's put a call out for you. Wants you brought to him alive. But…uh…I don't think you'll stay that way for long."

"But…I didn't do it, Chuckie!" exclaimed Jack. "You gotta tell him I didn't do it…"

"I don't think he's in the mood to listen to me, Jack," interrupted Chuckie. "Or you. He's pretty upset, like I said. Pretty really upset. I had a hunch you'd be here, so I came to find you before anybody else did. To warn you, y'know. You'd better skip town, and fast."

"Yeah…thanks, Chuckie," murmured Jack, clapping him on the back. "You're a real pal, I mean that."

"Well, I'd hate to see an innocent guy suffer for somebody else's crime," said Chuckie, shrugging. "And I know you ain't no squealer, Jack. Anyway, you got a doll to take care of now, and I'd hate for Sal to get his hands on her pretty face. Probably wouldn't be so pretty after he was done with her."

He tipped his hat to Harley. "It was nice meeting you, ma'am. And uh…good luck, Jack."

"Thanks again, Chuckie," said Jack, as Chuckie left the shop, shutting the door behind him.

Jack turned to face Harley, who was staring at him with fear in her wide, blue eyes. "What…are we gonna do, Mr. J?" she whispered.

"You heard him. Skip town," muttered Jack, heading back upstairs.

"Leave Gotham? And go where?" asked Harley.

"Anywhere but here," he retorted. "Sal Valestra's a determined man. He'll find me if I stay. And Chuckie's right. I wouldn't want him to get his hands on you. I gotta protect my doll."

Harley was terrified, but she couldn't help but smile at this. "I like being your doll, Mr. J," she murmured.

Jack smiled back. "You're a sweet kid, Harley Quinn," he murmured, kissing her. "Now grab Mr. Bear. We gotta make tracks."

"Stealing a car's no biggie," said Jack, as they went out into the streets of Gotham. He looked around carefully before fiddling with the lock on the nearest car. "The real trick is thinking of a good place to hole up."

Harley watched him open the car door. "What about Brooklyn?" she asked. "We could…stay with my parents."

Jack laughed. His face fell when he turned and saw how earnest her own face was. "Oh…you were serious," he murmured.

"Why not? Mom and Dad wouldn't turn us in, and the police wouldn't be looking for us in Brooklyn anyway. And Sal doesn't even know I exist, let alone where I'm from," said Harley. "I think it's a pretty perfect setup."

Jack laughed again, flipping open the hood. "Let me get this straight, kid," he said. "You think it's a pretty perfect setup to bring your gangster boyfriend home to your parents, when both his former gang and the police are after his blood. Can you see what's wrong with that picture?"

"Aw, c'mon, Mr. J, I know Mom and Dad are gonna love you!" exclaimed Harley.

"They didn't before," snapped Jack, hotwiring the engine. "I'll never forget the way your Dad looked at me, like some piece of trash. And I doubt his opinion will improve when you tell him why we've suddenly showed up."

"We don't have to tell them you're a criminal," said Harley. "We don't have to tell them anything about this. You're not wanted in New York. And your gang won't know where to look for you. We can lie low with my parents until we can find a place of our own, and we can start a new life there. We can change our names, find new jobs, and never have to worry about the police or gangsters again."

The engine started, and Jack slammed the hood down. "I was wrong, kid," he said. "You do have a good imagination."

"You got a better idea, Mr. J?" asked Harley, as she threw her bag into the backseat and climbed into the front.

He sighed, climbing into the driver's seat. "I do not," he retorted. He smiled at her. "So, my little clown girl, I guess it's Brooklyn or bust."


	15. Chapter 15

"Harley! What a pleasant surprise!" said Harley's mother, opening the door to their apartment. "I didn't know you were back in town! I thought you were busy with that job in Gotham!"

"Yeah, sorry, Mom, I would have called, but things have been a little hectic lately," said Harley, hugging her. "Hope you don't mind me dropping by like this…"

"Nonsense, sweetie, we're always glad to see you!" exclaimed Harley's mother, beaming. "George, Harley's here!"

"Hi, sweetheart," said Harley's father, embracing her and kissing her cheek. "How's the job going?"

"Oh, it's…uh…fine, Dad," said Harley, slowly. "Uh…Mom, Dad, I'd like you both to meet…my boyfriend. This is Jack Napier," she said, taking Jack's arm and pulling him into the apartment.

They both stared at him. "I…uh…didn't know you had a boyfriend, Harley," said Mrs. Quinzel, slowly.

"We only recently got together," said Harley, leaning against his arm and smiling. "Jack, this is…Mom and Dad."

"It's nice to meet you both," said Jack, nodding.

"Oh…it's…nice to meet you too, Jack," said Mrs. Quinzel, recovering herself first and embracing him. "I'm sure if you're Harley's choice, you're a fine one. She's got a good head on her shoulders."

"She sure does, Mrs. Quinzel," said Jack, nodding.

"Please, call me Gladys," she said. "Aren't you happy for Harley, George?"

George Quinzel studied Jack Napier with barely concealed disgust on his face. Harley's boyfriend was clearly only a few years younger than he was, which he thought was pretty sick in itself. But there was something about Jack's appearance that he simply didn't like. The man was dressed in a suit, but it was frayed, indicating that he was by no means wealthy. He had a look about him that Mr. Quinzel didn't trust. And he didn't speak like an educated, respectable man, which was the kind of man Harley deserved.

"Yeah…uh…nice meeting you, Jack," muttered Mr. Quinzel. "You known Harley long?"

"Yeah," replied Jack, smiling at Harley. "Quite a while, actually."

"It's a funny story, really," said Harley. "I don't know if you remember Dad's business trip to Gotham when I was about four, but we stopped at this gas station where Jack used to work. He actually remembered me from all those years ago, can you believe it?"

"And what kind of work do you do now, Jack?" asked Mr. Quinzel. "You're not still at the gas station, are you?"

"Uh…no, sir," replied Jack, slowly. "I'm actually in…uh…insurance."

"Really?" asked Mr. Quinzel. "What kind?"

"Life…insurance," said Jack, slowly. "Y'know, so people are provided for in case of any…accidents."

"He's a salesman just like you, Dad," said Harley.

"Just like me," agreed Mr. Quinzel, nodding. "Well, God knows we sent you to college so you could end up with a guy just like me, Harley."

The sarcasm and hostility in his tone was palpable, but neither Jack nor Harley could think of an immediate response to this. "Dinner's almost ready, Jack and Harley, and I'm sure it can stretch," said Mrs. Quinzel, hastily. "Do you like lasagne, Jack?"

"Who doesn't?" replied Jack, smiling. "Can I help at all, Gladys?"

"Oh no, thanks, Jack," said Mrs. Quinzel, smiling. "Just go sit down in the dining room. It'll be ready in a few minutes."

"So…you're from Gotham, Jack?" asked Mr. Quinzel as they sat down.

"Yes, sir, that's right," replied Jack. "Born and bred."

"And your parents? What kinda work did they do?"

"My father owned the gas station, sir. My mother was…uh…unemployed. Stayed outta work after I was born, y'know, to take care of me. She was…uh…a real supportive lady."

"And how did you meet Harley?" asked Mr. Quinzel. "Most recently, I mean. I don't think Harley's in need of life insurance in particular, unless Gotham is an even more dangerous city than it's rumored to be."

"Oh…no, Dad, Jack and me met…uh…through my job, actually. Y'know this case I was working on, against that gang member…"

"Did they send the scum down for that, by the way?" asked her father. "Though knowing the soft courts these days he'll get life in prison and not the chair. We're afraid to kill even roaches like that these days."

"My…patient is not a cockroach," whispered Harley. "He is a living, thinking, feeling human being with mental issues…"

"He's a crazy scumbag, Harley," interrupted her father. "And since when did we use that as an excuse not to kill people anyway? Just because somebody's crazy don't mean they don't deserve to die. In fact, they're more likely to cause harm to innocent people if they're nuts. But now we gotta treat even certified psychopaths with care and respect, as if they'd do the same to us. It's a crazy world, I tell ya."

Mrs. Quinzel served dinner at that moment, to Jack and Harley's relief. "So how did you meet through her case?" asked Mr. Quinzel, tucking into his meal. "Hope you weren't selling life insurance to this death row creep. That'd be a poor business strategy."

Jack laughed, at what he presumed was a joke. Mr. Quinzel didn't smile, so Jack tried to turn his laugh into a cough. "Uh…no, sir," he said, slowly. "No…uh…I was actually…doing business with her colleague, Dr. Leland. She happened to mention her assistant as a Miss Harleen Quinzel, and I remembered her name. We met and…got talking and…I asked her out to dinner. And now here we are," he said, taking her hand and smiling.

"You remembered the name of a little kid you met once about twenty years ago?" asked Mr. Quinzel. "That's kinda weird, doncha think? To fixate on a little girl like that."

"Well…uh…I wouldn't put it exactly like that…" began Jack.

"I think it's really romantic, Dad," spoke up Harley. "Like we're destined for each other. Soulmates or something."

Mr. Quinzel snorted. "Silly romantic concept," he muttered. "You make good money, Jack? You can provide for Harley, I take it?"

"Oh…yes, sir…"

"That's what makes a man, y'see," continued Mr. Quinzel. "The ability to provide for his family. Lord knows I've worked hard every single day of my life providing for mine."

"Sir, I promise you, Harley is the most important thing in my life," said Jack, sincerely. "And I'll do whatever I have to to take care of her. I'd kill for her if I had to."

"I certainly hope you'd never put my daughter in any situation where that would be necessary," retorted Mr. Quinzel, coldly. "Unless the insurance business is more dangerous than I thought."

"I'm just trying to tell you how precious she is to me," replied Jack. "I'll guard her with my life."

"I love him, Dad," murmured Harley. "And isn't that what matters?"

"No, Harley, it isn't," retorted her father. "And I don't know where you got that crazy idea from. Love is a luxury in a relationship. If you have it, good, but it's not essential. Essential qualities in a man are that he's dependable, responsible, hard-working, upstanding, honest, and that he can provide for his family. Love is a bonus, but if you ain't got the other qualities, it's worthless."

Harley was silent. "You worked really hard to get that scholarship to Gotham University, Harley," continued her father. "I was real proud of you for that. Still am. Lord knows I wish you'd wanted to become a real doctor instead of some quack shrink, but still, you were bettering yourself. And that's what I wanted for my only daughter, Harley. To be better off than me. So she wouldn't have to slave away every single day of her life. So she could provide for herself if necessary, so that she could have a respectable life, a better life than I had. But throwing yourself away on some middle-aged insurance salesman is not the way to get there. It's throwing away everything you worked for. It's a waste, Harley. Such a waste."

Jack stood up. "If you'd like me to go, Mr. Quinzel, I'll go," he muttered.

"No, Jack, don't be silly, you don't have anyplace else to go," whispered Harley, taking his hand. "The truth is, Mom and Dad, that Jack and I need to stay with you for a little while until we find a house of our own. I…was feeling homesick, and I wanted to move back to Brooklyn, and Jack agreed…"

"What about your degree?" interrupted Mr. Quinzel. "And your job?"

"I…I dropped outta college, Dad," whispered Harley. "And I quit the job. I don't wanna degree anymore. I just wanna…be with Jack."

Mr. Quinzel stared from her to Jack furiously. Without a word, he stood up and left the table, entering their bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

"I'm…so sorry about him, Jack," whispered Mrs. Quinzel. "Of course you're welcome to stay. You have to forgive him – he just…wants what he thinks is best for Harley. I think we all do."

Jack nodded but said nothing, his eyes burning in anger. He sat back down, and they finished their meal in silence.

The apartment was small, with only the master bedroom and Harley's room to sleep in, so Mrs. Quinzel made up a bed for Jack on the sofa. Jack lay there, hearing Harley's parents talking in quiet voices, but he could make out every word.

"Please, George, we just have to support whatever makes Harley happy…"

"Happiness doesn't pay the bills, Gladys! Happiness is temporary! She may be happy now, but five years down the line? Ten? After she falls outta love with him, after he leaves her for a younger woman, to take care of the kids on her own, and her without any kinda qualification whatsoever! What do you think is gonna happen to her then?!"

"George, I'm sure Jack wouldn't do that to her. Harley trusts him, and we have to trust Harley's judgment…"

"Gladys, God knows I love Harley, but she's still a kid in a lotta ways. She doesn't understand the way the world works. She's still young and naïve and innocent, and her instincts are gonna steer her wrong. I'm not blaming her – young people are allowed to make mistakes. But this mistake is gonna ruin her life forever. What happens if he drinks? If he starts hitting her? You think Harley's just gonna leave him? Or do you think she'll still have faith in him, and stand by him, because she doesn't have any other choice? Because she gave up everything for him. I'm just trying to save her from a big disappointment. She's my little girl, and I've gotta protect her."

"Maybe you should trust Jack to do that now. He seems like a nice young man."

"You trying to be funny, Gladys, or are you just nuts? First of all, he ain't a young man. He's almost old enough to be her father. And trusting Jack to protect Harley sounds like some kinda sick joke to me. The man's scum. You can tell just by looking at him. Harley deserves so much better."

Jack was startled out of eavesdropping, and his own black thoughts, by Harley suddenly creeping into the room and climbing on top of him. "Don't listen to them," she whispered, kissing him.

"He's right, though," murmured Jack, staring up into her wide, blue eyes, full of adoration. "You do deserve better."

Harley kissed him again. "I love you, Mr. J," she whispered. "There ain't no one better. Not for me."

"I should go, Harley," he murmured, sitting up. "Now. Tonight."

"Where would you go?" she whispered.

"I dunno," muttered Jack. "But I can't stay under the roof of a guy who hates me."

Harley kissed him. "Mr. J, I promise you, stay and be yourself, and my parents are gonna grow to be just as crazy about you as I am," she whispered. "Dad's just scared for me, y'know? But the more time he spends with you, the more he's gonna realize that there's nothing to be scared of. You're a great guy. And when he sees how happy you make me, he's gonna have no choice but to be happy about our relationship."

Jack wasn't convinced, but he tried to be, for Harley's sake. "Hey," he said, taking Harley's hand. "I'll bet you twenty bucks your Dad will dance at our wedding."

"Our wedding?" repeated Harley, grinning. "When will that be?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Tonight? Tomorrow?"

"I think we oughta give Dad a little more time to adjust to the idea," replied Harley, smiling.

"Next week?" he asked. "Tuesday?"

She beamed. "Deal," she said, kissing him. "Now come to bed. I can't sleep without my Mr. J lying next to me."

"You think your parents will be ok with that?" asked Jack. "Sharing a bed before we're married, and all…"

"I think they won't find out, because you're gonna be up extra early to make breakfast for them," said Harley. "You're a homicidal criminal who charmed your shrink. Charming her parents should be a piece of cake."


	16. Chapter 16

Professor Jonathan Crane was working late. But he wasn't grading papers. He was in one of the university's laboratories, working on his hobby.

It was good for a man to have a hobby, he had always thought that. Teaching ungrateful students was hardly an entirely satisfactory way to spend one's time. He had been working on this particular hobby for many years, and that's all it had ever been. A hobby. An occasional way to occupy his mind when he was bored, and relieve stress when he was under pressure. But since the news had reported the escape of Jack Napier, aided by Harleen Quinzel, Crane's hobby had transformed into an obsession. Focusing on work helped spare himself the pain of thinking about what Harley had done, and helped cope with the knowledge that he would probably never see her again. It helped absolve himself of the responsibility for her insanity, as he saw it. It helped him try to cope with the violent whirlwind of emotions that assaulted him whenever he actually thought about the situation: heartbreak, anger, betrayal, guilt, but most of all, confusion. He didn't understand why Harley had done it. Why she had chosen to give up everything she had for that man. Especially when there was a man who loved her as deeply as Crane did right at her fingertips. A good man, a man who wasn't a murderer, or a criminal. A man who wasn't condemned to the electric chair for his crimes. It just didn't make any sense.

Not like chemistry. Chemistry made sense. It was just a matter of formulas, mixing chemicals together, and creating a product. And chemicals and formulas didn't change. They were very dependable, unlike people.

While psychology had always been Crane's passion, he was a man of all sciences, and at the moment he was trying to marry his love of psychology to his love of chemistry by creating a drug which would overcome fear. It had been a pet project of his for many years – fear was a subject that interested him greatly, since his own unhappy childhood had been filled with it. The bullying he had suffered at school had probably emotionally crippled him for life. It was probably why Harley hadn't seen him as a worthy man for her. Crane had always thought if there was some way to stop fear from hampering people, his life would be better, and the world would be a better place. Or that was the dream, anyway. His dream that one day his drug would be famous, that he would be honored and loved and respected for having the mind to create it. It was all he had to look forward to in life, now that his dream of being with Harley was dashed.

He watched the beakers bubble and smoke, and reached for a gas mask. The drug could give off dangerous chemicals as a by-product, and it was better to be safe than sorry. He was just about to put the mask on when a voice said, "Professor Crane?"

Crane turned, surprised. "Mr. Dent," he murmured, as Harvey Dent entered the laboratory, smoking a cigar. "Um…would you mind extinguishing that?" he asked, nodding at the cigar. "The chemicals in here are highly flammable."

"Sorry," said Dent, grinding the cigar under his shoe.

"What can I do for you?" asked Crane. "It's a bit late for a social call, isn't it?"

"Well, this isn't a social call, Crane," replied Dent, smiling. "It's a business meeting. I'd like some information from you."

"I'm not sure…what information I could have that would possibly interest you," said Crane, slowly.

"What if I was to ask you some questions about Harleen Quinzel?" asked Dent, softly.

"What…about her?" stammered Crane.

"You've heard about her unpleasant business with Jack Napier, haven't you?" asked Dent, quietly. "You should see the CCTV footage of the break out – it's astonishing. She actually smuggled weapons in under her clothing. And you should see the way that animal gropes her, shoots a man in the face, and then goes right back to groping her, and she loves it. It's sick."

"Yes, I'm…sure it is," stammered Crane.

"You…uh…had a thing for Harley, didn't you?" asked Dent. "I saw at the dinner that you were…interested."

"Yes, I…was," agreed Crane. "But as you have seen, she wasn't, so I'm not sure how it can help to revisit…"

"She said you were her best friend here in Gotham," continued Dent. "She must have trusted you with a lotta information about herself. And that's what I'd like from you, Crane. Information about Harley. Including her whereabouts at the present time."

"I…I haven't seen her since the escape," said Crane, slowly.

"You're sure?" asked Dent. "It would really help me out if you'd cooperate, Crane."

"I promise you, I haven't seen her," replied Crane.

Dent sighed. "That's such a shame, y'know," he murmured. "Because some associates of mine really, really wanna find her and Mr. Napier. They got some unfinished business with him, as do I. And I'd hate to upset 'em. They can be pretty unreasonable people."

"I would help you if I could, Mr. Dent, believe me," replied Crane.

"Would you?" asked Dent, lightly. "Or would you protect the girl you're in love with? You seem like that kinda guy, Crane. Noble, self-sacrificing. Even if she don't love you, it doesn't matter. You're still gonna do the right thing and keep her safe. Because you're a good man, right?"

"I…like to think so," said Crane, slowly. "But I'm telling you the truth. I haven't seen or heard from Harley since the escape. I have no idea where she could be. And I doubt I'll ever see her again."

Dent sighed again. "I'd really like to believe you, Crane," he murmured. "And I kinda do, y'know. I just need to be sure you're telling the truth. You understand. It's nothing personal."

"What…" began Crane, but he was seized from behind suddenly, his arms twisted behind his back, and slammed to the ground. He gasped in pain as he felt someone tying him down, and then looked up to see Dent standing over him.

"Let me know if he talks," he muttered. "I have to get back to the office."

"Don't worry, Mr. Dent, sir," murmured a voice, as a thin man in a suit and fedora bent over him. "He'll talk. And if he doesn't, Sal's got an address for her parents' home in Brooklyn. They'll know if Crane don't."

"I have absolute faith in you, Buzz," replied Dent, nodding. He strode from the room, whistling.

"I wouldn't struggle if I were you, Professor," said Buzz Bronski, looking down at Crane. "It'll only annoy me. And you really don't wanna annoy me."

Crane watched as Buzz opened a bag, and drew out a small, thin blade, which he placed on the lab table. He continued to pull out various, unpleasant-looking objects as Crane looked around for some way to get his hands free.

"I tortured a guy for six hours straight once," said Buzz, casually, as he continued to unpack his bag. "Lotta blood, lotta screaming, but he stayed conscious, which was the whole point. Boy, did he sing like a bird by the end!" he chuckled. "I mean, I guess you could spare yourself a lotta pain by talking now, but you'd also make me miss out on a lotta fun. And you wouldn't wanna spoil my good mood, would ya?"

Crane's eyes fixed on his chemical still bubbling over the burner, and he had an idea. "If _you'd _like to remain conscious for the next six hours, let alone five minutes, you'll need to see to my experiment," he said, nodding at the beakers "It's giving off gas as we speak, gas which is incredibly dangerous if you're not wearing the proper equipment."

"What, you want me to torture a guy in a gas mask?" chuckled Buzz. "I guess that'd be kinda funny…"

"I suggest you neutralize the gas," interrupted Crane. "And quickly, before it begins to take effect. It can have some rather nasty side effects."

Buzz looked at him and sighed. "All right," he muttered, going over to the experiment. "What've I gotta do? Just turn this thing off?" he said, reaching for the burner.

"No, don't do that!" snapped Crane. "That will merely stop it from producing more gas! You have to neutralize what's already in the atmosphere!"

"And how do you do that, Professor?" snapped Buzz.

"Take that chemical there and drop it into the beaker," said Crane, nodding at the table. "Hurry up about it. I think I'd prefer death by torture to death by that gas."

"Why?" asked Buzz, picking up the test tube Crane had indicated. "What's the gas do?"

"In this current transitory state, it attacks the part of the brain that controls fear," murmured Crane. "It makes the subject suffer hallucinations, horrible visions of whatever he fears most. Extreme exposure could cause madness, heart failure, and eventually death."

"Why the hell would you make something like that?" demanded Buzz. "You crazy or…"

But the chemical he had dumped in suddenly made the entire formula explode, sending boiling liquid, glass, and steam flying everywhere. Buzz screamed as the full force of the scalding chemical and fear gas hit him, not to mention the shards of glass that sliced into his face. Crane heard his wild screaming, suddenly silenced, as he slid across the floor to try to reach Buzz's tools. He couldn't escape the lab with his hands and feet tied like this, but he had to get out of here soon, before he breathed in too much of the gas.

He began coughing as he managed to prop up one of the knives with one hand and slid the ropes against it. With his hands free, untying his feet was an easy matter. But he was choking on the gas now – he could barely breathe, and barely see through the smoke. Blindly, he groped his way toward the door, trying not to breathe in the toxin, but having no choice.

He burst out of the lab at last, coughing and rushing out into the clean, night air. He took deep, shuddering gulps of breath, his heart racing and his mind whirling. He couldn't think straight or…see straight. The world was suddenly full of shadows, and the shadows were suddenly full of…fear.

Crane screamed, starting back at nothing. But suddenly the night was closing in, suffocating him. He couldn't breathe. He felt himself panicking, felt his heart racing. He ran blindly, but the night clung to him. Demons were at his heels, mocking laughter, terrible voices, following him, haunting him. Black shapes sprang up in front of his vision, a giant, black bat tore out of the night sky and seized him. He knocked it away, running farther and farther until he reached, what in his twisted mind, was a cornfield.

The cornfield was empty. Except for a strange figure hanging in the middle of it. Hanging so that its body looked as if it had been broken. Its head sat on its neck the way no human head ever had. Crane was terrified, but he couldn't help but approach this figure, this terrible figure, dressed in rags and just hanging in the middle of the field.

The figure's face was hidden by a large hat. And as Crane approached it, he relaxed. For he saw the straw sticking out from underneath its hat, and at its knees and elbows. It was a scarecrow. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.

He changed his mind suddenly when the scarecrow moved. Its twisted body writhed on the cross on which it was impaled, and it raised its head to meet Crane's terrified eyes. Its own face was absent, except for two deep, black sockets, which were gazing at Crane. The sockets suddenly turned red as the figure spoke without a mouth. "Fear's a scarecrow. You are fear. You are the Scarecrow."

And it reached out a hand and seized him.


	17. Chapter 17

"Harvey Dent's office," said Grace, answering the phone. "Hold on one second, I'll see if he's in," she said, standing up.

She went over to the door to Dent's office and knocked. "Harvey? Harvey? Are you in there?"

"Yeah, c'mon in, Grace," said his voice.

Grace opened the door to see Dent's eyes fixated on the TV news. "…Professor Jonathan Crane, psychology teacher at Gotham University. Police found Professor Crane unconscious not far from the university in the early hours of this morning. Since waking, Crane has been raving about a scarecrow and District Attorney Harvey Dent, but nothing he has said has made any sense to anyone. Doctors have analyzed his blood and have found evidence of an as yet unknown toxin, which they believe has permanently damaged his mind..."

Dent flipped off the TV. "What is it, Grace?" he asked.

"Gotham General Hospital is on line one for you," said Grace.

Dent snorted. "Probably about this Professor nut," he muttered. "They probably want me to make a statement, even though I only met the guy once. I'm sure it's a tragic loss, though."

He picked up the phone as Grace left, shutting the door behind her. "This is Harvey Dent."

"Mr. Dent, this is Doctor Moll. I'm sorry to bother you, you must be very busy, but we've recently had a patient admitted to us, and your name was on her emergency contact form."

"Oh…who's that, Doctor?" asked Dent, puzzled.

"It's a Dr. Pamela Isley," said Dr. Moll.

"P…Pammie?" stammered Dent, suddenly concerned. "What's…uh…what's wrong with her?"

"She's been poisoned, Mr. Dent," replied Dr. Moll. "We believe it is self-inflicted – she left a suicide note at her home where she was found."

"Oh…my God," gasped Dent. "Is she…is she gonna be ok?"

"That remains to be seen, Mr. Dent," replied the doctor. "The poison is not any that we've come across before. It appears to be derived from some rare plant species. It's infected her blood, but we may be able to stop the toxin before it reaches her brain, in which case her life may be saved."

"You…you gotta do that, Doctor," stammered Dent. "You gotta. I…I love her…"

"We'll certainly do our best, Mr. Dent," replied the Doctor.

"I'll be over there in ten minutes," said Dent, grabbing his coat. "She's gotta be ok…she's just gotta…"

…

Pamela Isley awoke slowly in the hospital bed, feeling strange. That was the only word to describe it, she thought. There was an odd humming sound in her head, and a weird feeling in her fingers and toes. She looked down at her hands and blinked. Maybe it was just her imagination, or her eyes being funny, but it seemed to her as if her skin had taken on a slightly greenish hue.

"How you feeling, baby?" murmured a voice.

Isley looked up to see Harvey Dent seated by her bed, holding a bouquet of flowers. A look of horror passed across Isley's face at seeing the bouquet, and she turned away. But she was horrified to discover that the whole room was full of cut flowers in vases.

"Pammie? You ok?" asked Dent, gently.

"What have you done?" she whispered.

"A lotta bad things, baby, I know that," he murmured. "But Jesus, when I thought I'd lost you, it was the worst thing imaginable. Thank God you're ok now…" he said, reaching for her hand.

She ripped it away. "What have you done?!" she repeated, angrier.

"Baby, whatever it is, I'm sorry," said Dent, sincerely. "I love you, Pammie. And I will be a better man in future, I promise…"

"You're a murderer!" shrieked Isley. "You murdered my babies!"

"I…what?" stammered Dent, astonished.

"My babies!" shrieked Isley, grabbing the bouquet away from him and cradling it. "My poor, sweet, innocent babies! The bad man killed you! But I'm not gonna let him hurt you anymore! Not him or anyone!"

"Pammie, what…" began Dent, but she stood up suddenly, smashing the vases around the room and screaming, "He murdered my babies! My babies! My precious babies!"

The nurses rushed in and tried to calm her, but it took four of them to hold her down while the doctor gave her a sedative. All the while, Isley was struggling fiercely, and screaming about her babies. Dent couldn't bear to watch anymore, and he left the room, shaking.

"My baby," whispered Isley, as the sedative took effect. She was holding a rose, stroking its petals softly. The thorns of the stem cut into her finger, making it bleed, but she didn't seem to feel it. She didn't seem to care about anything except the rose. "My precious baby," she repeated, kissing the petals softly. "Mommy's here. Nobody is going to hurt you anymore."


	18. Chapter 18

"Jack, you're such a help, but I can finish the dishes on my own," said Mrs. Quinzel, smiling at him. Jack stood next to her, drying plates, as she washed the sliverware. "You should go talk to George."

Jack glanced out into the living room, where Mr. Quinzel sat in front of the TV, watching a baseball game. "I…uh…don't think he wants to talk to me, Gladys," he murmured.

Mrs. Quinzel smiled. "The thing about George is he's very stubborn," she said. "Pig-headed. Doesn't change his mind easily. But you can't give up, Jack. That's the trick with George. He admires people who don't give up. I mean, in my case, when I need him to help around the house, I have to keep nagging him, but he always does it eventually. He just needs to know that you're determined enough not to give up. That you really want something that badly. Then he'll usually relent. In fact, I can only think of one time when he didn't."

"When was that?" asked Jack.

Mrs. Quinzel stared down at the sink. "I…uh…wanted another child," she murmured. "After Harley. But…George insisted we could only afford to have one. He didn't wanna have more kids than he could provide for, you see. You can't blame him. He's always been a self-sufficient, proud man. And he wanted his kids to grow up respectable, y'know, with enough to eat and clothes to wear and a good education. I guess he was right in the end – I mean, Harley's turned out wonderfully. But I still kinda think about how it could have been sometimes if we'd had a son, or another daughter…"

She trailed off. "He's not a bad man, you see, Jack," she murmured. "He's not even a stern man. He just believes in people taking responsibility for themselves, and the people they love. He's seen how cruel and random the world is, and he wants to protect what he has in it, and what he loves in it. Some would say that's all a man can do. And he's afraid of failing to protect his family. He's afraid of failing to provide for his family, and sending them out into that crazy, cruel world for them to be bruised and beaten and swallowed up. He's afraid of losing Harley. That's why he's acting like this towards you."

Jack was silent. Mrs. Quinzel smiled at him. "But I think you're just like him, y'know," she murmured. "I think you'll fight for what's important to you. I think the two of you are similar in a lotta ways, in your love for Harley, and in your desire to protect her. I just think George is too blinded by fear to see that. But you've gotta make him see it, Jack. Go talk to him."

Jack nodded, leaving the kitchen and sitting down on the sofa next to Mr. Quinzel, who kept his eyes fixed on the screen. "How 'bout them Yankees?" asked Jack, nodding at the screen.

"Bad season," muttered Mr. Quinzel. "No signs of improvement."

"Shame," said Jack.

There was silence again. "You a sports fan?" asked Mr. Quinzel, casually.

"Kinda," said Jack, shrugging. "I follow the local teams."

"You're gonna have to switch your loyalty from Gotham to New York if you plan on moving here," said Mr. Quinzel.

"I ain't really the type of guy who switches loyalties, sir," replied Jack. "Once I pick 'em, I pick 'em for life. I hope you understand."

Mr. Quinzel glanced at him, but said nothing. "Boring game anyway," he muttered, picking up the remote. "Gotta be something else on. What kinda stuff do you like to watch?"

"Comedies," replied Jack.

"Yeah?" asked Mr. Quinzel, turning to look at him. "What, like sitcoms, or…"

"Lotta the classic stuff," replied Jack. "Charlie Chaplain, Buster Keaton, Laurel and Hardy, Three Stooges, Marx Brothers, Abbott and Costello. Anything slapstick, really."

"Y'know, the first time I ever went to the movies, they were playing a Stooges short," said Mr. Quinzel, smiling. "I laughed so hard that the soda I was drinking actually came out through my nose and went all over my clothes. My old man was furious. Belted me hard for that one, but it was worth it. The only time I ever went to bed after a beating with a smile on my face."

"Yeah…my old man was fond of the belt too," murmured Jack, softly. "Usually for a lot lighter things than getting soda on my clothes, though."

"Never did me any harm," said Mr. Quinzel, shrugging. "Still, never believed in using it on Harley. Your kids can't respect you if they fear you, y'know?"

"No, sir, they can't," agreed Jack.

"You…uh…think you might want kids someday?" asked Mr. Quinzel.

"Someday, yes, sir," replied Jack, nodding. "I know Harley does. She'll be a great mother. And I…I kinda wanna make up for how bad a job my father did raising me. He…uh…wasn't like you, sir. He didn't care if I really respected him, as long as I stayed outta his way and did what he said. He didn't care if I was hurt or hungry or anything. I was like an inconvenience to him. And a kid should never have to feel like that."

"Yeah, you always gotta put your family first," agreed Mr. Quinzel. "They're all you're gonna have left in the end."

He kept flipping channels. "You and your old man ever see each other now?" he asked.

"No, sir," replied Jack. "He's dead."

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Quinzel.

"No, I think it was for the best, in the end," murmured Jack. "His drinking was getting worse, and he was getting more violent…probably would have killed me if I hadn't…"

He trailed off. "If he hadn't died," he corrected.

There was silence again. "I think it's why I like slapstick, y'know," murmured Jack. "Because it makes the violence funny. Makes you laugh at the pain. I can think back on what my old man did to me, and to my Mom, and I can laugh. It just…makes the pain go away. Sometimes I hear my Mom's screams in my head when he's hitting her, and I pretend she's laughing. Makes it all better. Or it…helps, anyway."

"A man should never hit a woman," murmured Mr. Quinzel. "And I don't really think you should treat the memory of her abuse as a joke…"

"I should if it's the only way of coping with it, sir," murmured Jack.

Mr. Quinzel studied him. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said, sincerely.

Jack nodded, but said nothing. Mr. Quinzel continued to flip channels until a Laurel and Hardy short suddenly popped onto the screen. "Aw, I love this one!" exclaimed Jack, smiling. "They just can't get this crazy ladder to stay up! Just watch. I mean, it's the simplest task, so why the hell can't they do it? Oh…uh…I mean why the _heck _can't they do it. Sorry about the swearing, sir."

Mr. Quinzel shrugged. "You're a grown man, Jack, you can swear if you like," he said, watching the screen and smiling. "And stop all this 'sir' stuff, huh? The name's George."

Harley returned from the grocery store to see Jack and her father seated on the couch, laughing their heads off at the comedy on the TV. She smiled, and slipped into the kitchen, leaving them to it.


	19. Chapter 19

"Harley, I love you, but you're the worst cook in the world," said Jack, as Harley threw open the oven and pulled out a completely inedible roast, burnt to a crisp and smoking.

"Shut up, Mr. J, you're not helping!" snapped Harley, throwing the roast into the sink and spraying cold water on it.

"Didn't you ever have to cook living on your own in college?" asked Jack.

"They had a cafeteria," retorted Harley. "Oh God, this is a disaster!" she exclaimed, burying her face in her hands.

"Harley, baby, do you need any help in there?" asked Mrs. Quinzel, popping her head into the kitchen. "I saw the smoke…"

She trailed off when she noticed the blackened remains of the roast in the sink. "Oh, don't worry about that, baby, it's not a big deal. We can go out for pizza if you'd rather…" began Mrs. Quinzel.

"No, Mom, I really wanna prepare a nice meal for my family," said Harley. "It's good for you to take a night off once in a while, huh?"

"I just hate to see you go through all this trouble," said Mrs. Quinzel. "And your Dad's offered to pay for pizza…"

"No, here's what we're gonna do," said Jack, taking Harley in his arms and kissing her. "I'm gonna put the potatoes and veggies in the oven to keep 'em warm, while Harley goes out with my money to buy a couple of those rotisserie chickens they keep grilled in those stands. She's gonna bring 'em back here, and we're gonna have a nice meal together, mostly prepared by my talented little cook," he said, grinning at her. Mrs. Quinzel nodded and left. "And before you protest," continued Jack. "I'd normally be the one to go out to get 'em, but I'd actually like some time alone with your parents because I'd like to ask their permission for something I wanna ask you tonight."

Harley stared at him. "You wanna do this…tonight?" she gasped. "Why, Mr. J?"

"Because you're having bad night," he murmured, grinning. "So I wanna make it better. I wanna turn that frown upside down. I wanna make it a night you'll always remember, the night you ruined dinner, so you know that no matter how many other dinners you ruin, I'll always love you. And because I can't wait another second to be engaged to you."

Tears of joy pooled in Harley's eyes. "I love you," she whispered, kissing him. "I'll be back soon…"

"Not too soon, though, huh, baby?" he murmured.

She grinned and kissed him again, then grabbed her coat and left the apartment. Jack made sure the oven was warm and put the side dishes in it, and then left the kitchen to sit down next to Harley's parents on the sofa.

"Uh...George, do you think we could talk for a second?" asked Jack.

"Sure, what's on your mind?" asked Mr. Quinzel, flipping off the TV.

"I…uh…just wanted to ask you…something," said Jack, slowly. "Kinda a big deal, actually…uh…but I think you're a good guy, and I hope I've proved to you that…I ain't all bad. So I kinda hope you'll say yes."

"What is it?" asked Mr. Quinzel, puzzled.

"Well…sir…and ma'am," he said, nodding at Mrs. Quinzel. "You know I'm nuts about your daughter. Crazy for her, in fact. Have been for…a long time now. And I know I don't deserve her. I've done a lotta bad stuff in my time. More than you know. But I don't wanna be that guy anymore. I just wanna be the guy who makes your daughter happy. Forever. I…I wanna ask your permission for her hand in marriage."

Mrs. Quinzel gasped, beaming. "George, isn't it…" she began, but Mr. Quinzel held up his hand, leaning forward.

"You gotta make me a promise now, Jack," he murmured. "Before I give you my permission. You gotta promise that whatever happens in the future, you'll look after my baby girl. I know you'll do your best to make her happy, but nobody can be happy all the time. The only thing I need you to always do all the time is take care of her. Even if things don't work out between you, and I'm not saying they won't. I'm just saying I need to know that you're gonna provide for her."

"I'll do one better than that, sir," replied Jack. "I promise you I _will_ make her happy. Every hour of every day, there'll be a smile on her face, I swear it. And I will always, always take care of her. I care about her more than I ever thought I could care about anyone. And she means more to me than you can possibly imagine. I'll never forget that. Never."

Mr. Quinzel nodded. "Then I give you my permission, Jack. Gladys?"

"Oh, Jack!" gasped Mrs. Quinzel, embracing him tightly. "Welcome to our family!"

Jack had always thought the happiest moment of his life was when he had beaten his father to death. That was before Harley had come back into the picture. Then he thought the happiest moment of his life was the day he read her note that said she was in love with him. And it was, until the day of his escape from prison, and the night he and Harley had made love for the first time. Holding her in his arms, full and complete with her, he had decided, was the happiest moment of his life. But he had a tie happiest moment now, being welcomed into a family, a real, loving family, Harley's family. It was almost too good to be true.

A knock on the door interrupted his happiness. "I'll get it," he said, standing up and heading over to the door. He opened it, and his smiling face fell in a sudden look of horror.

"Run, Jack," whispered Chuckie Sol, and a second later, a hail of bullets began shooting into the room. Jack slammed the door shut, although that offered little protection.

"What the…" began Mr. Quinzel, but Jack pulled both him and Mrs. Quinzel behind the sofa as the bullets kept firing.

"Get out the back door. Now," hissed Jack. "And have you got a gun, George?"

Mr. Quinzel was shocked, but nodded. "Bedroom," he muttered. "Jack, what…"

"They've come for me," interrupted Jack. "They won't hurt you if you get outta here now. Quickly, go!" he hissed.

Mr. Quinzel stared at him. "They're gonna kill you," he murmured.

Jack nodded slowly. "Yeah. Looks that way," he whispered.

"I can't let them do that, Jack," murmured Mr. Quinzel. "I can't let them kill a member of my family."

The door was being riddled with bullets – it couldn't hold out much longer. "I don't have time to argue with you!" hissed Jack. "Just please go!"

"You're right, Jack," muttered Mr. Quinzel, nodding. "You don't."

He raced toward the bedroom, reappearing a second later with a shotgun. The bullets had stopped firing, to be replaced by the sound of people trying to break down the flimsy door, which looked ready to cave at any moment. Mr. Quinzel stepped in front of it, aiming the shotgun at eye level and ready to fire it when the door fell.

"Don't do this for me…" begged Jack.

"You don't have time to argue," repeated Mr. Quinzel, firmly. "Just run. I'm protecting my home and my family. That's my job."

He cocked the shotgun. "Take Gladys and go," he muttered.

"No, George," whispered Mrs. Quinzel, coming over to stand beside him. "I'm staying with my husband."

Mr. Quinzel nodded slowly, and then bent down to kiss her tenderly. The door teetered on its hinges as Mr. Quinzel's finger tightened on the trigger. "You remember your promise, Jack," he murmured. "Look after my little girl. And tell her…we love her."

The door fell in at that moment. "Run!" shouted Mr. Quinzel, as he pulled the trigger. The gun exploded in a mass of fire and blood and screaming, but Jack didn't stay to watch. He was out the back door and down the fire escape, looking around to see if Harley was heading home, and desperate to head her off if she was.

Suddenly, he was struck on the back of the head, and fell against the hard metal of the stairwell. He tasted blood in his mouth as his face hit a step, and he hissed in pain as he suddenly felt a boot on his back, grinding his body down onto the metal. "Surprise, Jack," whispered a familiar voice. "Game's up."

With a sinking heart, Jack looked up into the cold, hard, merciless eyes of Salvatore Valestra.


	20. Chapter 20

Harley had read once in a psychology textbook that one of the leading causes of clinical insanity was severe mental anguish resulting from a traumatic experience. The brain was given a situation too horrific for it to process, so it would take either one of two courses: shut down, or break. Back when she had read it, she had tried to think of what could possibly be so horrific that the brain would be unable to cope with it, but she couldn't imagine a scenario where that would be the case. She found one waiting for her on her return home.

She wasn't quite sure which route her own brain had taken when the realization hit her that the two bodies, riddled with bullets, which were being removed from her parents' apartment, were indeed her parents. Maybe her brain hadn't decided itself yet, and maybe that was why all she could do at the time was scream wildly and sob uncontrollably. The police on hand tried to calm her, but she was too far gone for that.

The next thing she remembered was being taken to a police station for questioning, but she didn't hear the words. All she heard was a buzzing sound, a humming like a hive of bees, as her entire body shook and tears streamed from her eyes.

And suddenly, her brain switched on again. Not at any words the police were speaking at her, but at the words she heard from a man in a cubicle nearby, talking on his phone. "Jack Napier."

Her head snapped around as she turned her attention to his one-sided conversation. "That's right, Harleen Quinzel. Homicide, actually – apparently her folks were shot. We're guessing not by her – either that or she's just put on the most convincing grief act I've ever seen. Really? You're serious?"

He covered the phone as he muttered to the police chief. "Hey boss, turns out this dame is wanted in Gotham. Helped a guy called Jack Napier escape from prison. They want us to send her there for questioning."

"Her parents' homicide is on my turf," growled the chief. "They want her, they gotta come down here to question her."

"Chief says no dice," continued the officer into the phone. "Says you gotta come here. Why? Yeah? You got him in custody? Well, do that, and then we'll talk. All right, hang on."

He covered the phone again. "They're saying her parents' murderer is back in Gotham now. DA's office has been tracking a mob boss called Salvatore Valestra for several weeks now – says they tailed 'em to Brooklyn but lost 'em here. They're ninety-nine percent sure he's our guy. But he's left Brooklyn and reappeared back in Gotham. Apparently this Jack Napier the dame helped turned squealer on Valestra, so he wanted revenge on anyone who was harboring him. Guess that included the dame's parents."

"So tell 'em to arrest Valestra…"

"They're gonna. They got his location and they're setting up a raid for tomorrow night. And when they do take him in, they want the dame there too, just so they got all the pieces in the Napier case together."

"What about this Napier? Where's he gone then?"

"The guys who were tailing Valestra say that he's got 'em. Ain't killed him yet. Probably got some special death planned – you know how dramatic those gangs can be."

"Well, tell 'em…"

"I wanna go back to Gotham," interrupted Harley, quietly.

It was the first coherent words she had spoken, and all the police stared at her, shocked.

"I wanna go back to Gotham," she repeated, calmly. "I'll only talk to the police there. You gotta take me back. Now."

She refused to say another word, despite being questioned. At last, not seeing what else he could do, the police chief agreed to send her back to Gotham, and put her in a car with an armed escort. Harley sat in the backseat, studying the two men across from her, who were chatting casually, their hands relaxed on their guns. The police chief had thought Harley in her almost catatonic state wasn't a particular threat, and hadn't thought it necessary to handcuff her. That was his mistake.

Harley started forward, seizing one of the guns, and pulled the trigger before the man realized what had hit him. She shot the other one right afterward, and then aimed the gun at the back of the driver's head, hissing, "Stop the car."

He obeyed. Harley ordered him out of the driver's seat, opening the backdoor. She shot the driver in the head with no more concern than if she were swatting a fly, and then jumped into the driver's seat, stepping on the gas pedal and racing off onto the highway. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all, and these were desperate times. She had to get to her Mr. J before Sal Valestra could kill him. He was all she had left now.

…

Harvey Dent sat alone in his office, a single lamp burning on the desk, and a glass of scotch in his hand. Everyone else in the building had long since gone home, and now it was just Dent, alone with the night and the shadows.

He downed his glass, staring at the document in front of him. Commitment papers for Pamela Lillian Isley to be confined in Arkham Asylum. They had been signed by head doctor Joan Leland, and were waiting for his signature.

Dent didn't know what else he could do for Pammie but keep her someplace safe, someplace where she couldn't inflict harm on herself or others. The plant obsession hadn't diminished – if anything, it had gotten worse. She had emptied her house of furniture and appliances, and had filled every available space with plants of all varieties. The whole place was like a jungle, and it wasn't sanitary or healthy. So Dent had called Dr. Leland, and Dr. Leland had done what was necessary to protect Pammie from herself.

It was all his fault, thought Dent, pouring himself another drink. He was to blame for Pammie's madness. He had driven her to it. It was only right that he took responsibility for her. He had told Dr. Leland to send the bill for her treatment to him. It was the least he could do, not that it eased his conscience any.

He also asked that Professor Crane's treatment be put on his tab. Crane had been committed shortly before Pammie, and Dent knew he was responsible for that too. He had just wanted Buzz to rough the guy up a little to make him talk. Not break him like this.

Dent reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin Pammie had given him. It hurt just looking at it. Dent had done a lot of immoral things in his time, but his actions had never hurt anyone, or so he had thought. Certainly not anyone he cared about, and certainly not like this. He had never done irrecoverable, permanent damage to anyone. And he didn't know how he was ever going to cope with it.

He sighed, putting the coin down in front of him. He picked up a pen and signed the commitment papers, placing them into an envelope and sealing it carefully. A second later, he changed his mind about what he had just done – Pammie was too sweet and beautiful to be locked up with the rest of those freaks and lunatics. He would take care of her personally, keep her at home and hire shrinks to come to her, to help her. But he couldn't lock her away like that – it was inhumane.

He grabbed a letter opener and cut open the envelope he had just sealed, taking the papers and heading over to the shredder. He paused, holding the papers over the blade and preparing to slide them in.

But then he changed his mind again. Dr. Leland was a good doctor. And Pammie would be safe and protected in Arkham. It was for the best. It may seem extreme, but if it would help her get better, it was the only thing to do. He didn't have a choice.

With a growl of annoyance, Dent threw the papers back onto the desk, running his fingers through his hair. He had never had a problem making up his mind before. He had always been a resolute, decisive man, sure of what he wanted, sure of how best to get it. But now…now he found himself doubting every decision he made. He had always trusted himself, but since Pammie had ended up like this because of him, any faith in his own decision-making powers was completely shattered.

Dent's anger and frustration seized hold suddenly, and he began stabbing the letter opener into the desk in front of him. He scratched the blade across the coin Pammie had given him, scratching deeper and deeper into one side, completely blotting out the face.

He picked it up again. "Good side, I shred the papers," he muttered. "Bad side, she goes to Arkham."

He flipped the coin. It landed bad side up. Dent sighed heavily, but stood up, putting the papers back into the envelope.

"Don't move, Harvey," murmured a voice suddenly. Dent whirled around to see that the window was open, and a figure stood on the balcony. A female figure, pointing a gun at him.

"Who are you?" he gasped.

The figure stepped into the moonlight. "Harley Quinzel," murmured Dent. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

"I heard you were tailing Sal Valestra," murmured Harley, still holding the gun on him. "I need to know where he is, Harvey. I need to find him. Now. Tonight."

"You're in luck," muttered Dent, sealing the envelope again. "The GCPD are surprising Valestra on an operation tonight. I'm coming along to take him in. You should come too."

"I think even the GCPD would recognize me for the wanted felon that I am," retorted Harley. "I need to get to him before they do. I need to save Jack."

Dent laughed. "Still obsessed with saving Jack Napier," he sighed. "Guess it's good some things never change. Though I can't pretend to know what you see in him. You've already risked so much for him, and now you're gonna pit yourself against a hardened mob boss for him. Why?"

"Simple," retorted Harley. "I love him. I think anyone in love would do the same. If there was something they could do to save the person they love from pain and death, no matter how dangerous or desperate, they'd do it. Wouldn't they?"

"Yeah," murmured Dent, staring at the envelope. "They'd certainly do everything they could."

He sighed. "We'll leave now," he muttered. "Take my car. Get to Valestra before the police do."

"We?" repeated Harley. "Why would you wanna come with me?"

He looked at her. "I dunno," he murmured. "Maybe because I blew my chance to save the person I love from pain and suffering. Maybe I'm trying to make up for it now. Maybe I'm hoping it'll ease my conscience. Or maybe I just admire you, Harley. Young kid like you, going up against both the lawful and the lawless. You got guts, kid, I'll say that for you. Not a lotta brains, but guts."

He pocketed his coin. "Hurry up," he said, heading for the door. "We need to speed across town if we're gonna beat the police."

"Where are we going?" asked Harley, following him.

"Little place you may have heard of," replied Dent. "Ace Chemicals."


	21. Chapter 21

The pipe smashing across his face and breaking his nose startled Jack Napier back into consciousness. "Rise and shine, Jack," muttered a familiar voice.

"Sal," gasped Jack, through a dry throat, opening his swollen eyes as much as he could. He could barely make out his surroundings, but he appeared to be hanging. His wrists were chained together, and he looked down as a trickle of blood slid off his nose and down into the vat beneath him, bubbling with green chemicals and bathing the whole room with their sickly color. Jack looked up again to stare into the face of Sal Valestra, who was standing on a platform level to where he was hanging, holding a lead pipe and smiling.

"You'll have to try harder than that to hurt me," muttered Jack, glaring at him. "My old man used to break my nose every week."

"Shame he didn't break your skull," retorted Sal. "Would've saved me a lotta trouble. But I'm in no rush to hurt you, Jack. I got plenty of time. And I wanna make your torture last, nice and slowly, before I drop your broken body in that vat there and wash it out into the river," he said, nodding down.

He suddenly smashed Jack across the face again. "You've been a real pain in the ass, y'know," continued Sal. "Making me drive all the way to Brooklyn to drag back your sorry hide. I'm gonna make this worth my while. Your slut's old man killed four of my guys before they finished him off. I'm gonna make you pay for that too."

He struck Jack across the kneecap this time, making him hiss in pain. "Shouldn't have dragged them into this, y'know," muttered Sal. "Now I'm gonna have the NYPD on my tail as well, and it's all your fault. Double homicide – messy business, but, y'know, sometimes you have to make a mess to clean up a mess. Shame we didn't get to finish off your slut as well, but don't you worry. I'll find her after you're gone, and I'll make the bitch scream good before I finally shoot her in the head. She'll squeal, just like you. She'll squeal hard."

He cracked him across the other kneecap. "I ain't…a squealer," growled Jack, biting his lip.

"You think I'm dumb enough to believe that?" murmured Sal. "You think I'm an idiot, Jack?"

He struck him again, breaking his jaw. "If you ain't a squealer, why did you run?" he muttered. "Why didn't you stand and face me, like a man? Why did you flee like a rat to Brooklyn?"

"You wouldn't have believed me," hissed Jack. "And I didn't have anything left for me in Gotham except a death sentence, either from you or from the law. I didn't have a choice."

"You did," murmured Sal. "And you chose to run, like the coward you are. To run away with your little whore. Maybe you thought we wouldn't find you. Maybe you thought you could just settle down with her and start a family someplace far away, and forget all about your criminal past. Is that what you thought, Jack? Were you actually that stupid?"

"I ain't a coward," muttered Jack.

"Maybe not, but you are a criminal," murmured Sal. "A hitman, a killer, a murderer, and you can never escape that. You can't just forget what you've done and wipe the past clean. That fate ain't for you, Jack Napier. Your hands are stained with blood, maybe more than mine are. And you can't ever rinse them clean."

"Maybe a dip in this vat'll do it," said Jack, giving him a small smile.

Sal looked at him. "That meant to be a joke?" he muttered.

"Yeah," agreed Jack. "A joke, a gag, a last laugh. Guy's gotta have one, I guess. And sometimes, y'know, Sal, sometimes, like when you're facing your own death, I guess all you can do is laugh."

"You wanna laugh, Jack?" muttered Sal. "You wanna laugh? You go right ahead."

He smashed the pipe repeatedly against Jack's body. "C'mon, laugh about this, dammit!" he shouted. "If you think this is so goddamn funny, why doncha laugh?!"

He stopped beating him, and Jack raised his bloodstained face to Sal. And smiled. "Heh," he chuckled, as the blood dripped from his face into the vat. "Y'know, it_ is_ funny, Sal," he said, continuing to chuckle. "This kinda reminds me of the time…the time I beat my old man to death when I was a kid. I didn't have him hanging over a vat or nothing, but I had a pipe in my hands, just like you do, and I just kept hitting him, over and over again. I was laughing then, just like I am now. And now that I remember it, I think he was too, y'know. I think he was laughing."

Jack started laughing hysterically, and Sal stared at him in fury and horror. Then he suddenly heard several loud bangings, like gunshots, coming from outside.

He swore, heading toward the door at the end of the platform. "Chuckie?" he shouted. "What the hell's going on out there?!"

There was another shot, and then the door was thrown open, and a gun was pointed in Sal Valestra's face. "Don't move, scum," hissed a voice.

Sal Valestra overcame his initial surprise, and smiled. "Harvey Dent," he murmured. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking you in," growled Dent.

"Don't you have grunts to do that sort of work for you?" asked Sal.

"I prefer to make this arrest myself," retorted Dent. "At least, it's an arrest if you want it to be. I can always just shoot you in the face. It might be a lot easier for both of us than a lengthy trial."

"Thought you were a fan of the courts, Harvey," replied Sal. "Thought they paid your salary."

"Yeah. But lately I've begun to think that there's some justification for taking the law into your own hands," muttered Dent.

"My sentiments exactly," replied Sal, grinning. "We're the same kinda man, Harvey. Men who know we're superior to others, that we deserve better."

"You wanna be shot in the face, you keep saying we're the same kinda man," muttered Dent. "I am nothing like you. I am not a criminal. I…I'm a good man."

"That's the last of the thugs taken care of, Harvey," said Harley, entering the room at that moment. She looked up and saw Jack, bloodied and battered, hanging over the vat, and shrieked, racing over to him. "Mr…J?" she gasped, reaching out a hand to touch him.

"Hey, kiddo," he murmured, smiling at her. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes? Literally," he chuckled.

Harley clapped a hand to her mouth. "What have you done to him, you monster?!" she shrieked, whirling around and storming back over to Sal. She ripped out her gun. "No courts, Harvey! This bastard dies now!"

"We gotta consider justice…" began Dent.

"This _is _justice," hissed Harley. "He shot my parents. I shoot him. All fair and balanced."

Sal grinned at her. "You must be Jack's little slut," he said. "Oh yeah, I can see why he tried to disappear with you, sweetheart. I can see why he wanted all that to himself," he said, leering at her.

Harley cocked her gun. "No, Harley, it's right that we take him in," muttered Dent. "It's right and just and...good. At least I…I think it is."

He reached into his jacket, pulling out his coin. "Good side, we take him in," he muttered. "Bad side, we shoot him like a dog. Fifty fifty chance. That's fair, right?"

Harley nodded slowly. Dent flipped the coin. And Sal suddenly slammed the pipe into Dent's knee, knocking him to the ground. Harley fired, but Sal ducked, grabbing Dent's gun and turning on her. She dodged out of the way, and Sal continued to fire at her. A stray bullet suddenly hit a fuse box, making it explode and sending the sparking wires sailing into one of the vats of chemicals below.

The vat exploded as a wave of fire and chemicals surged upward, enveloping the platform and half of Dent's body. He screamed at the burning pain, clawing at his face, just as a squad of policemen suddenly burst into the room.

"Dent?" gasped Commissioner Gordon, as the fire and smoke continued to spread. "Oh my God…get him out of here!" he shouted. "This whole place is gonna blow!"

The explosion had knocked Sal and Harley to opposite sides of the platform. Sal aimed his gun towards Jack, who was still hanging over the vat, and shot at the chain holding him up. "Better save your boyfriend, sweetheart!" he chuckled, heading for the door.

Another explosion suddenly rocked the platform, and another wave of fire jumped up from below, completely consuming a screaming Sal Valestra. His charred corpse and half the platform disappeared into the chemicals below, separating the door from the vat over which Jack was hanging.

Harley took a deep breath, despite the choking smoke, and raced toward the platform edge. "Harley, no!" shouted Jack. "It's too dangerous!"

Harley jumped, and just managed to catch the other side of the platform. She hauled herself up, keeping her eyes fixed on Jack, and on the chain Sal had shot, which was beginning to break.

She grabbed Jack around the waist, pulling him onto the platform. "I got ya, Mr. J," she whispered. "I got ya…"

A third explosion shook the platform, and Harley let go of Jack just as the chain holding him up snapped. He fell down, but managed to grab ahold of the edge of the platform. Harley crawled over to him, eyes stinging and choking on the smoke and chemicals.

"C'mon, Mr. J," she gasped, holding out her hand. "Gimme your hand."

"Harley, you have to get out of here now!" hissed Jack. "This place is gonna explode at any moment!"

"I ain't leaving you!" gasped Harley, seizing his hand and struggling to pull him up. The chain dragged him down, giving him added weight, and Harley could feel him slipping.

"I ain't letting you go, Mr. J!" she whispered, tears in her desperate eyes. "I ain't!"

"Harley, please, listen to reason," he whispered. "You have to get out of here! I made a promise to your Dad that no matter what happens to me, I'd look after you! I ain't breaking that promise! Just leave me and go, before this platform goes and we both fall into these chemicals!"

"If we're gonna die, at least we're gonna die together," whispered Harley. "Call me crazy if you wanna, but I ain't leaving you."

He smiled at her. "You _are _crazy, my little clown girl," he murmured. "But I ain't gonna let you die."

He kissed her tenderly. "I love you, Harley," he whispered. And then he let go.

"No!" screamed Harley, as he slipped out of her grasp and she watched him plummet down, down, down, hitting the surging green chemicals below. They swallowed him instantly and he disappeared.

Harley stared down in shock, but a fourth explosion brought her back to reality with a jolt as the whole platform rocked dangerously. She stood up, noticing the control panel for the vats not far away. She shot this, and all the vats instantly began draining. Harley waited until the one Jack had fallen into was empty, and then jumped down into it.

He wasn't there. As the factory began collapsing above her head, Harley crouched down and made her way into the drain. She crawled through the dark, dank, foul-smelling tunnel, calling, "Mr. J!" Her only answer was her echo.

At last, she reached the end of the tunnel, and came out at the edge of the Gotham River. She looked around desperately for any sign of Jack. "Mr. J!" she kept calling. "Mr. J!"

She spent hours searching both sides of the river bank thoroughly, until dawn came. But Jack was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

Harley opened the door to the abandoned building, looking around carefully. The place seemed deserted, and appeared to have been for a long time. Dust, dirt, and water stained the floor and ceiling, and Harley let out a sigh of relief. It looked like she could rest here tonight without being disturbed.

It had been two weeks since the fire at Ace Chemicals. Jack had not reappeared, and his body had not been reported as found. Harley checked the scraps of discarded newspapers every day, hoping for news, but there was nothing, except the report that Harvey Dent was still in the hospital with third degree burns and hadn't regained consciousness. But Jack Napier had disappeared without a trace.

Harley pulled her coat tighter about her, huddling into a corner of the room and trying to get warm. Her life for the past two weeks had been more miserable than she could ever have imagined. She was a wanted criminal, with no money, no friends, and no family. She had nothing. And she was utterly alone.

She tried not to tear up as she lay down, curling up on the floor. Some nights she wished she had the strength to end her suffering and kill herself, but she couldn't give up the hope, vain and futile as it was, that Jack was alive somehow. It was all she had left to cling onto.

Her stomach growled – she hadn't eaten today. She wasn't hungry that often, but whatever food she wanted, she had to steal, which she was still getting the hang of. She had almost been caught a few times, and she didn't feel it was worth the hassle for a few scraps of bread. The effort of living, of merely surviving, seemed too much most days, and at nights she would lie awake crying, unable to sleep, unable to escape her horrific memories, until exhaustion overcame her. Which is what happened tonight.

She might have been dreaming what happened next. She dreamed that a figure crept through the window of the house and came over to where she was sleeping. She couldn't see the figure's face – it was concealed by a hat and trenchcoat, but she could hear it breathing, and feel its warmth. She dreamed that the figure reached out a gloved hand and gently moved it over her body, without touching it. The hand shook, as if it wanted to touch her, but couldn't. And then slowly, the figure pulled the glove off to reveal a white hand, bleached like a skeleton. It brought its pale, trembling fingers down to Harley's face. She swore she could feel the warmth in its touch as it gently caressed her cheek.

"Harley," breathed the figure, and she felt its warm body curl up beside her. Something about its touch was reassuring, and Harley dropped off into a deeper slumber, a solid one, without dreams.

She opened her eyes around dawn, when the shadows of the morning cast weird shapes in the dim light. But she must not have been awake, because she still dreamed that the figure was beside her, one arm draped around her body as it breathed softly against her. It saw her opened eyes, and, swift as a shadow, started up and disappeared out the window again, so suddenly that Harley wasn't sure it was ever there.

She sat up, truly awake now, and realized that there was a small pile of food next to her. She was shocked – either the figure was no dream after all and had left it for her, or it had been here the whole time and she had just missed it last night. Whatever the reason, her stomach was gnawing at her, so she devoured as much of it as she could.

She heard voices outside, so she gathered up the rest of the food and hurried from the house. She spent the day wandering Gotham, not seeing any way out of her situation, and not particularly caring if there was one. She was waiting to die. There was nothing else left for her to do.

Night came, and Harley once again went on the lookout for someplace to sleep. She was searching an alley when a voice suddenly said, "Well, hello there, sweetheart."

She whirled around to see a group of six men looking at her hungrily. "What's a pretty young thing like you doing in a place like this?" asked the one who had spoken before, smiling at her.

Harley was too terrified to answer. Her hand slid down to the gun concealed in her belt, wondering how many she could shoot before they overpowered her. Only one way to find out…

She ripped out the gun, firing at them. She took two of them by surprise, and hit a third when he came at her. But then the gun was knocked from her hand, and two of the three remaining men held her down, while the remaining one approached her.

"Oh, big mistake, sweetheart," he murmured. "Before we were just gonna have a little fun and then let ya go. But I don't think we'll be letting you go now. And frankly, I ain't in the mood to treat you gently."

Harley shut her eyes. At least she'd be dead when it was over. At least she'd be with her parents again, and with Mr. J, who must be dead. Who couldn't have survived being exposed to those chemicals, who'd either been poisoned or drowned, but who was gone forever. She would just endure this pain, and then she would be with him again…

She suddenly heard a scream, and felt the grip on her arms and legs loosening. Her eyes snapped open as she saw the same shadowy figure standing in the moonlight. It was holding a knife, which flashed silver as he plunged it into each of her attackers in turn. And it was laughing. Laughing over the terrified, agonized screams of the men.

"That's right, boys, keep laughing!" chuckled the figure. "Nothing like a little laughter to set the world to rights! Laugh and the world laughs with you, y'know!"

Harley recognized that voice. But it was impossible…it couldn't be…

"Mr. J?" she gasped.

He turned at her voice, as the last man fell dead at his feet. She still couldn't see his face. "Did ya…did ya hear them laugh, Harley?" the figure murmured. "Wasn't it the happiest sound you ever heard?"

"Mr. J!" cried Harley, rushing toward him. "You're alive!"

He started back suddenly. "N…no, kid, don't," he stammered. "Stay…stay back. You don't wanna…see me like this."

"You nuts?" gasped Harley. "I don't care how you look, Mr. J! You're alive! It's a miracle! I thought I'd lost you forever, I'd given up hope but now…now I got something to live for again."

The figure chuckled. "That's…that's a good joke, kid," he murmured. "As if I could be anyone's reason to live. Some goddamn…clown like me."

"What are you talking about, Mr. J?" murmured Harley.

"You…you don't wanna see me like this, kid, and I don't want you to remember me like this," said the figure. "I'm gonna go…"

"Please don't leave me, Mr. J!" cried Harley, desperately. "Please…I can't be alone again!"

She approached him. "Whatever…whatever it is, Mr. J, it doesn't matter," she whispered. "I love you. I'll always love you, no matter how you look. Please don't be afraid to show me."

He turned away, but she grabbed his gloved hand. "Mr. J, please," she whispered, sliding her arms around his back and embracing him. "Please. Just show me."

She felt him shudder at the touch of his body against hers. His shaking hand tightened in hers as he nodded slowly, turning around. "All right, kid," he murmured. "But you asked for it."

He pulled off the hat to reveal his face. Harley had been expecting a burn or a deformity. She hadn't been expecting this, and she gasped in surprise.

Mr. J's skin was bone white. His lips were bright red. His hair was green, and it matched his eyes, still bright and intense as ever. Only…with a different kind of intensity now. A strange, haunted, desperate look. But he was still her Mr. J, and Harley smiled at him.

"Now which one of us is the clown?" she asked, grinning.

He choked on a mixture of a laugh and a sob, seizing her in his arms and hugging her tightly, planting kisses all over her face. Harley returned them, feeling happiness flooding back into her, feeling life and warmth and purpose returning. He was alive. Her Mr. J was alive.

"C'mon," he whispered at last, drawing away but keeping a careful hold of her hand "My hideout ain't far."

"How long have you been following me?" asked Harley, as they entered a warm attic room a few blocks away.

"Since the night at Ace Chemicals," he replied. "I…didn't want you to see me like this, but I had to keep you safe. And it made me happy, y'know, to be around you, even if you didn't know I was there."

"You brought me food last night," said Harley. "You slept next to me."

He nodded. "Did that whenever I could. Not that I sleep much these days. And sometimes it hurt to watch you, kiddo, when you cried…I…I didn't like when you cried, Harley."

He touched her face gently. "Ya gotta…ya gotta smile now, huh, kid? Smile. Always smile."

"I will," whispered Harley. "As long as you never leave me again, Mr. J."

"You…you can't…wanna...be with me like this, Harley," he stammered. "Nobody wants a clown…that's crazy…"

"I told you, I'm a crazy gal, Mr. J," she murmured. "And I don't care how you look on the outside. You're my Mr. J on the inside, and I love my Mr. J."

"What if…what if I weren't your Mr. J on the inside, Harley?" he murmured, quietly. "What if…uh…something had happened to my mind that changed me…that made me feel and act and think…strangely?"

"I…dunno what you mean, Mr. J," replied Harley, slowly.

"I mean I…I think I've gone crazy, Harley," he whispered. "I feel…myself slipping away, drowning in some whirlpool of colors and confusion. Some days I can't remember who I am, I can't remember anything about my past…except you. I had a name, but all I can remember is Jack…"

"Jack Napier," supplied Harley.

"Napier," he murmured. "Like that guy I killed."

"Your father," said Harley.

"I remember that, I remember…laughing about that," he whispered. "I get images, snippets, which force themselves into my head, and I don't know why they're there or how to get them out. Faces and names and pictures and…smiles and laughter. Even when there's pain, there's laughter. My whole head…my whole life…it's like one big comedy routine. It doesn't make any sense at all, but it's really…really funny!"

He started chuckling madly. "Everything…everything's really funny when you think about it, Harley!" he giggled. "I mean…everything! But especially violence, y'know? Especially slapstick. You should hear how people laugh when they're in pain – I've never heard anything like it before! It's almost musical! Those guys I just knifed, it was…it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen! And they thought so too…they…they laughed! Didn't you hear them laughing, Harley?!"

He broke down in hysterical laughter. Harley just stared at him. "Mr. J…" she began.

"It's funny, y'know?" he cackled. "Funny that I should end up looking like this. A clown. And that you should be with me, with your name, Harley Quinn, my little clown girl. Just when we discover that everything in life is one big joke! There's a nice kinda irony to it, a nice kinda fate. Like…like this was a joke set up a long time ago, and we got no choice but to be the punchlines to it. At least, that's what it seems like to me, but…but I am crazy, y'know."

Harley nodded slowly. "Maybe…maybe you ain't, Mr. J," she whispered. "Maybe everyone else is. Maybe the world is. Maybe you've just finally seen it, really seen it, y'know."

She took his face in her hands. "Ya gotta…ya gotta help me see it too, Mr. J," she whispered. "You gotta let me share the joke. Please. Please let me come with you. Please help me…go crazy too. I just wanna be with you, whatever happens. You're all I've got left. And I love you."

He smiled. "You love me?" he murmured. "Then you're already on the road to crazy, sweets. All you gotta do is go completely off the rails."

"Can you help me, Mr. J?" she whispered.

He kissed her, pressing her down on the bed. "I can, kiddo," he whispered. "I can."


	23. Chapter 23

"Harvey?" said Bruce Wayne, softly, in the interview room at Arkham Asylum. "Do you know who I am?"

Harvey Dent sat behind the glass, flipping a coin casually into the air and catching repeatedly, like a nervous habit. He didn't respond to Bruce's question, just flipped the coin again and watched it land on the table this time. Bruce sighed heavily.

"He's been like this how long?" he asked.

"Ever since he woke up from the accident," replied Dr. Leland. "It's been two months now."

"Has he said anything about what happened?" asked Bruce.

Dr. Leland shook her head. "That's why I asked you to come, Mr. Wayne. I thought if he'd talk to anyone, it would be to an old friend like you."

Bruce nodded, turning his attention back to Dent, who just stared at the coin in front him, face up, on its good side. "Harvey?" Bruce tried again. "What happened to your face…I mean, they can do wonders with plastic surgery now…"

"I deserve this face," whispered Dent, still staring at the coin.

"What?" asked Bruce.

"I deserve this face," repeated Dent. "I finally got a face that reflects the way I truly am. On the inside. Two-faced. Monstrous. Evil."

He reached a hand up, feeling the marred side of his face, burned and charred. "No more masks, Bruce," he whispered. "This is how all of us should look. We wear faces that hide who we truly are, pure faces, masks of innocence, but rip off the masks, and there's evil and darkness and corruption underneath. I can finally look at my true face in the mirror. The face of evil."

"You're not evil, Harvey…" began Bruce.

"Maybe not," interrupted Dent. "Maybe nobody is. Maybe just the things they do are. In my case, every decision I've ever made has led to death and misery and madness. What else would you call that but evil?"

"You're a good man, Harvey…" began Bruce again.

"Nobody is entirely good, Bruce," murmured Dent. "Just like nobody is entirely evil. We're all both, all two-faced, we've all got the two sides battling away inside us, battling for control of our soul. Nobody can think rationally in a warzone, Bruce. And that's what our souls are. They're warzones, chaos, madness. Nobody can ever trust themselves, because nobody really knows themselves. Instincts are lies, leading you to false ends. No man can control his fate, or his actions. It's all random. Chance. Like the flip of a coin."

He picked up his coin again. "This is the only thing you can trust, Bruce," he whispered. "Leave it all to chance. There's nothing else you can depend on. Let the responsibilities slip away. Give it all to fate. Good, evil, right, wrong – let the coin decide."

Bruce studied him carefully, and then stood up. "I'll visit again soon, Harvey," he murmured. "I…"

The door to the interview was thrown open suddenly. "Excuse me, Dr. Leland, but they're being brought in now," said the attendant.

"Oh…excuse me, Mr. Wayne, I just have to take care of this – it's very important," said Dr. Leland, rising.

"I'll come with you, if I may," said Bruce.

"Oh…sure. Just…uh…stay well back," she said, heading down the hall. "We're receiving some…rather troublesome new inmates. The police have finally caught them after they went on their most recent, random killing spree – you must have read about it in the papers."

"The one in the art gallery?" asked Bruce. "Where all the bodies were found smiling and there was a message written in blood on the paintings?"

"A message and a smiley face," said Dr. Leland, nodding. "'Smile and world smiles with you.'"

"Why would anyone do that, Dr. Leland?" asked Bruce.

She shrugged. "Because they're crazy. Some types of madness are temporary, Mr. Wayne. They can be understood, treated, helped. But this…this is beyond anything I've ever seen before. This is evil."

They stood in the foyer of the building as the doors opened, and guards entered, dragging a man and woman behind them, heavily chained. And Bruce Wayne looked upon the face of evil.

It was smiling.

The man was dressed in a purple suit and clown makeup, but…no, Bruce realized suddenly. It was too clean to be makeup. The man's skin was actually bleached white. He smiled broadly with his bright, red lips and shining, white teeth. His wild, green eyes met Bruce's, and he laughed hysterically.

The woman _was _wearing makeup, white makeup with a black mask, and a skintight, red and black harlequin outfit with diamonds on it. She too was smiling, her big, blue eyes gazing in adoration at the clown.

"Harleen…Quinzel," stammered Dr. Leland, recognizing the woman.

She shook her head, grinning. "Harley Quinn," she corrected. "The name's Harley Quinn."

The guards dragged them off down the corridor and into the cell block, with the man still laughing maniacally. "We dunno who the guy is," said Commissioner Gordon, who had followed them inside. "His fingerprints have been burned off in whatever accident turned him into that. He either doesn't know his real identity or won't tell us. Just calls himself the Joker."

"Just what we need," sighed Dr. Leland. "Another lunatic with a self-made persona. I swear the patients get more difficult every day. We didn't used to have these types of people in here. But now we've got Professor Crane calling himself the Scarecrow, Pamela Isley going by Poison Ivy, Harvey Dent insisting on being called Two-Face, and now the Joker and Harley Quinn. It's like they're all some new breed of…super-lunatic."

"I think I prefer to call them super-criminals," said Gordon. "Except unlike regular criminals, there's no motive to their crimes. My men questioned that Joker guy for hours about why he attacked the museum, and he just kept giving the same answer. 'Because it was funny.'"

He lowered his voice. "Between you and me, Dr. Leland, we're gonna need to train new guys for this," he murmured. "My men aren't cut out to deal with these kinda threats. Nobody knows how to handle them. I mean, how do you solve a case without a motive? How do you fight pure evil?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," sighed Dr. Leland. "Sorry, Mr. Wayne, this must be really boring to you," she said, turning to him. "I'll walk you out."

Bruce Wayne returned to Wayne Manor, sitting down in front of the fire in his living room and staring into the flames.

"How is Mr. Dent, sir?" asked Alfred, entering the room with a glass of brandy.

"I…I think he's gone, Alfred," murmured Bruce, taking the glass from him and sipping it slowly.

"I am sorry to hear that, sir," said Alfred, sincerely. "And I do hate to burden you with more worries, but Miss Kyle has called from the police station. She's being detained on charges of cat burglary and has requested bail."

"Send her…whatever money she needs," said Bruce, slowly. He put down the glass, staring into the fire. "Alfred," he whispered. "I think it's time."

"Time, sir?" repeated Alfred, puzzled.

"Time to put all my hard work to the test," murmured Bruce. "You remember after my parents were murdered that I disappeared for several years? I went to China, Tibet, Japan, Nepal, all over the world, and trained. Trained to fight. I had some…crazy dream, I guess, that if I trained hard enough, I could defeat crime. That I could prevent what happened to my parents happening to others. When I returned to Gotham, I was determined to put my skills to good use, but I became…distracted. With Selina, with my work at Wayne Enterprises, and…I guess I grew up. Calmed down. Put aside my dream. But now…now I think there's a need for a crime fighter in Gotham City. A super-fighter. A superhero."

"We do have a police force, sir…" began Alfred.

"But there are criminals the police can't handle," murmured Bruce. "Commissioner Gordon himself admitted it tonight. Criminals who have no motive but madness, who commit crimes without reason. Evil. I have to fight that evil now."

"Sir, I don't believe that you have quite thought this through," said Alfred, softly. "You're upset at the loss of your friend, you…"

"I've thought about it a long time," interrupted Bruce. "And tonight I realized that I was needed at last. Somebody has got to do something, Alfred. I have the wealth, the resources, the training…and I don't have a choice. More of these lunatics get dragged into Arkham every night. I have to stop the madness. Only I can do this."

"A man becomes what he studies, sir," said Alfred, gently.

"Then call me crazy," retorted Bruce, standing up. "Because I will study them. I'll discover their personas, their tactics, their plans. I'll figure out their madness. I'll be one of them, but on the side of justice. And I'll make my own persona, just like theirs."

"And what will that be, sir?" asked Alfred.

Bruce looked out the window, where the moon was shining brightly in the night sky. A shadow flitted across it suddenly. "What hunts in the night, Alfred?" he whispered. "What frightens people, although it doesn't hurt them? What uses the darkness as its ally, when others are blind in it?"

"I…don't know, sir," said Alfred, slowly.

"A bat," murmured Bruce. He turned to face Alfred, the moonlight shining through the window behind him and magnifying his shadow throughout the whole room, like a dark cape, or a giant pair of black wings.

"I am what they have made me," murmured Bruce Wayne. "I am vengeance. I am the night. I am Batman."

**The End**


End file.
